


A Zephyr's Gale

by Sifter401



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 114,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10081781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sifter401/pseuds/Sifter401
Summary: Riven deserts a Noxus thoroughly corrupted by greed, and embarks on a quest to purify her home country from its evils before it tears Ionia to pieces.*** UNDER RECONSTRUCTION ***Probably gonna delete this'n when the new version is complete.





	1. Chapter 1: Lonely Pillars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm pretty far into writing this story already, but it needs some heavy editing, so expect updates every 1-2 weeks. Please enjoy!

Sand twirled and whirled through a sky so blue and crisp, the ocean seemed to have taken flight and claimed the space beyond for its own. A sky marred by no clouds, but a blistering sun so hot, it seemed to singe the very air, singe the souls of the few soulless that lived in this desert.

The earth spiraled in delicate cones over plains of beige grit and flawless waves, expanding as far as the eye could see, hopelessly, desperately infinite in all directions. The sandy slopes that billowed like blankets in the dry, yet gentle breeze looked like any old desert.

Save for colossal rectangular pillars of black stone worn smooth to the touch by eons of wind and ballistic dirt, the massive beings that erupted from the sand some time ago but now loomed dead. The odd, unexplainable formations scattered across the wasteland in intervals of tens of miles consistently, though a birds-eye view could conceive no discernible pattern from their haphazard placements.

But their presence was not one of silent, sentient guardians of the yellow sands, no. They may have died ages ago, but they were not content in their prison that was death.

They were ominous, malicious beings, radiating malevolence, seething a foreboding enmity that was almost palpable, that contributed to the added to indifferent emotionless Hellscape that was the Shurima Desert. The giant, obsidian titans jabbed at the sky, ruining a flat horizon with their mere presence, as if they were purposely set there by some greater being to intrude upon the clear expanse of beautiful azure above.

And maybe they were.

And maybe whatever dwelled above, perhaps the Gods and the Goddesses whose shrines pocked Runeterra; maybe they had smote them down in rage, for their jagged tops which served as the nesting sites for avian monsters appeared to have been the result of some great fracture, like they used to be taller, much taller, but were violently separated from their missing upper halves.

No one knows of their origin; they were too large for the hands- assisted by magic, advanced technology, or simply a sheer multitude of helpful hands- of any race that still survived or thrived on the great Continent that sits between the forever raging Conqueror’s Sea to the West and the comparably tranquil waters of the Guardian’s Sea to the East.

As a result, the locals- though why anyone would ever consider this particular barren hunk of rock their home is anyone’s guess- believed that they were the product of the inhabitants of the Heavens above, weaving a dense cultural web consisting of traditions known only to the sacred few that wandered in nomadic tribes.

The rugged tribesmen and women were strung with vines of dyed clay pendants and woven dreamcatchers that whispered as the nightmares and the mirages withered and perished in the enchanted netting, were buried beneath layers of leather and decorative ponchos to protect from the sun’s rays, were accompanied by their tri-horned oxen wrapped in stone tools, collapsible yerts, salted foods, canteens, and anything else they could carry.

They worshipped the strange monuments in the belief that the act would appease their powerful Gods that watched, unseen and mysterious, proving their existence in miracles. Sometimes it was the amazing recovery of a small child fallen deathly ill to an unknown plague. Sometimes it was in the fortunate discovery of an oasis, startling green interrupting the golden waves of sand with its uncommon hues of lively chartreuse palm trees and deep, deep blues of a pool of water, sweet water. Whatever the case, the groups believed the Gods would guide and protect them from harm, and that anyone who tried to ‘go it alone’ always met with a horrible fate.

The person seeking shelter behind the gargantuan towers of black obviously did not heed their warnings. For amidst the silky sands of the infamously dangerous Shurima Desert, a lone figure lay prone, a tattered brown cloak shielding them from the burning Earth beneath them. They’d paused their trek across the desolate plains to rest and recover from the merciless heat of the blinding sun, vainly attempting to cool themselves off, to recover for the remainder of their journey.

The figure- human, with ears rounded and smoothed unlike the Elves, with a posture tall and impressive unlike the Yordles- was trying to fan themselves with a faintly feminine hand in a futile attempt to stave off heat stroke. The rest of the body belonging to the lone wanderer was comprised of long, muscular limbs, scars from battles long ago and recent blighting a darker skin tone. Although the limbs and the broad shoulders were rippling with strength, the narrower waist that hovered above wider hips and the larger chest revealed the person to be a woman; a woman with intricate facial features culminating to create a fit, yet very attractive lady of around 30-ish. Her short, platinum hair contrasted her crimson irises in such a way as to make the woman unforgettable, if her toned form hadn’t already been ingrained into the mind of the viewer.

Her outfit was most peculiar, as if the woman hadn’t the faintest clue of the dangers of the unforgiving sun. But the case was that she had, many times, in fact- waded through the Shurima, that is; she simply didn’t care about sunburns, not when more pressing issues weighed down on her,

A robe cradled her breasts, a violet corset around a lean torso, and a white skirt faded by years and dirtied by countless bloodbaths and tromps through dusty deserts halted halfway down her thighs.

Any longer and it would impede her masterful wielding of a shattered blade with a single rune etched just above the hilt, pulsing a tranquil emerald in tune with the woman’s heartbeat. The shard’s width and thickness suggested that the sword was once humongous, a magnificent feat in masterful craftsmanship.

The only armor she wore was a spiked pauldorn poised on her left shoulder, a similar shin guard on the opposite leg, and a gauntlet with another rune on the back of the right hand, this one differing in size and complexity from the green, luminous etching on her oversized longsword.

Closer examination and superficial knowledge of the many factions of the world would identify the scraps of protective steel as those that belonged to a Commander of the Noxian Military, though the armor was worn to a polished dullness, creased with scars from a great many battles and tussles, and outdated by at least 10 years or more.

Overall, she appeared very ragtag, solemn, and rough around the edges, and for once appearance matched personality.

It was midday, and though the woman showed a lot of skin, it wasn’t enough to grant her any sort of immunity from the scorching heat of the white hot star. Perhaps it was because the woman wisely decided on donning a dark, leather cloak to shield her smooth skin. Whatever the case, it didn’t change the fact that she was roasting, and in dire need of water.

Thankfully, this was not her first hike across the scathing sands of the Shurima Desert- far from it. Dangling from her powerful, exposed thigh was a canteen filled three-quarters full of water, and from her other hip rested a satchel containing, among other things, many strips of dried Griffin meat.

The woman eventually gave up on fanning herself, ceding to the desert winds, shifting her position so that her back lay against the cool stone of the sinister sentinel behind her. She sighed, mildly content with the welcome change, and wiped hot, sticky sweat from her brow, accidentally smudging the remnants of the war paint caked onto her face.

After she drew a long swig from the canteen with cracked lips, she voiced her thoughts to no one in particular.

“Damn this heat. This desert can go fuck itself.”

Her voice was wise and feminine. It spoke of vast experience of the intricacies of both life and death, especially a startling amount of the latter, even though she only had 30 years under her belt.

Her thoughts were peaceful, calm, and collected, a far cry from where she stood over a decade ago. The ashen-haired woman let her head fall backwards, propping on the uncomfortably flat expanse of pitch blackness, beautifully tragic eyes hiding behind soft skin, as Riven recounted bloody war, placid dojos, and finally upon velvety raven locks and icy blue eyes that only ever thawed for her.


	2. The Promotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comment and the kudos, everyone! Nice to know someone's interested. Please enjoy another chapter!

**12 Years Ago**

The Eastern Coast of The Continent is not extraordinary, was never extraordinary. Along the Eastern beaches of Valoran, one can’t see anything that isn’t like every other thing of its kind. The lackluster sand paled in comparison to the magnificent rollers of the Shurima, and the waters, while unpolluted and free from the crusty reef of skeletons and soggy skeletons-in-waiting, could never hold a dime, not even half a _penny_ , on the seas sieging Bilgwater, an aquamarine atmosphere nursing creamy oranges, hot pinks, and seaweed greens. Along with an even more colorful variety of sharp-toothed beasties, billowing clouds of scarlet seeping from the corners of satisfied, toothy maws, but that was beside the point.

The point was that the East Coast was none of these things. It was average, perhaps a little more than so in certain places, but nothing really caught the eye.

Save a single city, but that comes later.

On the southernmost tip of the stretch of land, comfortably nestled in the luscious meadows of Ruddynip Valley lies Yordle Land, the birthplace and home of the purple, fuzzy creatures known as Yordles. Bandle City, the Democratic capital of the fur balls of Valoran, sits right on the edge of the sea. With splendid views of the flawless, foaming blue and the pristine beaches picked clean of litter by a people obsessed with giving back to dear Mother Nature, the city (read: large town) offers unique, exquisite delicacies not obtainable anywhere else in the wide world of Runeterra, as well as a community that is perpetually, dare-some-say _annoyingly_ , happy and optimistic.

The gorgeous sights, delicious eats, and the society that never stopped smiling appealed to many and it showed; The Bandle City harbor was always chalked full of merchant vessels and tourist cruise liners bursting with wealthy noblemen and women who “just can’t wait to see the purple teddy bears!”

Encasing the valley were the Sablestone Mountains, a series of naturally beautiful plateaus and mesas that shield the short fuzzy race of beings from the mysterious Voodoo Lands, a craterous area where few ever return from.

Traveling further up the coast eventually yields the Great Barrier, a mountain range that divides The Continent in two, and for everything the Sablestones are, The Great Barrier is its twisted doppelganger.

Where the Sablestones are a series of gentle slopes and rises, the Great Barrier is sudden, steep, and overwhelming. Craggy edges with unforgiving plummets into a seemingly endless, dark abyss where demon spawns from the Void surely creeped, the towers of stone can only be surpassed through a crumbling stone staircase whose stability atrophied with time. One misstep, and the unlucky soul would plunge head first into a pitch black chasm where death itself awaited with his cloak of the night draped over his chilling bare bones.

The Northeastern beaches of Valoran were just that- beaches of no claim to fame, though they weren’t necessarily unsightly either.

All is nothing special, nothing of any grave importance or uniqueness;

But then, there is Noxus. Important and unique, but not in the way that most are important and unique.

Where the North meets the South, just above the Great barrier, lies the city-state where brutality and strength are rewarded with fame, glory, and a promotion in the militaristic hierarchy that rules with an iron fist over its population.

The City itself is an imposing spread of land visible from miles away at sea. Where some regions are the source of valorous light and blinding honor like Demacia, Noxus seethes shadows that grip everything with its icy talons.

The meadows surrounding Noxus were wastelands, not entirely unlike a desert, except this ground is black, not glistening sheet of yellows and golds, instead burned by noxious chemical formulas concocted by sick, sick minds that stowed away in the arguably equally as vicious city of Zaun. The beaches upon where great, ominous flagships of war periodically ceased their tireless patrols were charred and glassed over in a shiny, horrifically beautiful kind of way.

The slums, poorhouses where “disposable” families fight for the scraps, a place no more civilized than the unclaimed wilds where wicked things roamed free, protected the inner, wealthier inhabitants, forging a buffer of human lives between Noxus and the wastelands. This was the tier that sat- no, cowered- in the mud and filth in terrified obedience of the upper class, like a dog fearing the stinging belt of a cruel, manipulative master. This was the first tier.

Separating the levels that ascended to heaven- the effort was futile; heaven didn’t accept devils- were thick, gargantuan bulwarks that reached 100 feet high easy. Whether they existed for protection from invaders or from revolt of a lower class, the citizens didn’t know, and most of them didn’t care.

As paths leading into the city closed in on the center, as tiers elevated, the rickety huts that insult the very meaning of the word “house” slowly transformed, adopting obsidian tiling that absorbed anything shining or hopeful, braziers where searing, bewilderingly-orange flames sizzled forever, large, red, stained-glass windows that drenched bloody light onto the streets lined with ornate lampposts that cast shadows that move closer when you blink. They gained size, too, both the houses and the barbaric families huddled within.

Then, on the highest tier, on the highest pedestal where the heroes of Noxus lazed, drawbridges spanned over a moat. The walls here were different than the rest; where the outer bulwarks were a dull grey, duller than even the skies wrought by an immortal bank of clouds, the inner walls were of a vile black, glassy and threatening. Both leaned out over the chasm of infinite black where terrible creatures slithered and croaked, egging their counterpart on in true Noxian fashion.

And though the outer bulwarks fought tenaciously, valiantly, the mammoth blockade of obsidian soldiers encompassing the elite overpowered its brethren across the way, standing taller, fiercer, and most importantly _stronger_.

But for all the aggressive, rancorous vibes the outer city emanated, the fearsome architecture of the central island where the capital stood completed the haunting atmosphere that hung over the area like a dense fog.

For it was here that the ground suddenly and violently rose from the Earth hundreds of feet, sprouting a mesa that housed the most savage Noxians that lead their mighty armies into bloody conflicts with blood-curdling battle cries.

Carved into sheer ragged rock was a fleshless face, bone black and corrupted instead of white. It was too perfect, too natural to possibly be natural. Its teeth, a bead of rotten pearls munching on the city below. Its nose, a heart of a man despairing over loss: broken in two, and empty. Its eyes, hollow caves so deep and dark, its depth seemed endless, like a portal to the Void.

Like staring into Hell itself. Or rather, Hell itself was staring into you.

On the scalp of this mouthless skull was perched a series of tall spires that scraped viciously at a permanently overcast sky. The castle almost appeared to have burst from the skull’s cranium; perhaps _it_ had been the cause of the skeleton’s demise.

The citadel above was gloomy and ghastly, great arches of rough, midnight’s stone connecting towers and buildings that loomed over the rest of the city, almost daring it to make a move. Inside the fortress, the only form of light came in torches sparsely placed along long, sinister hallways that lead to rooms furnished with ebony tables, chairs padded with crimson, and somber shelves upon which great tomes of diabolical names and natures roosted. Above each room, the ceiling was nonexistent, sable pools of darkness where a chandelier seemed to spawn, swaying menacingly in an absent breeze. The floors were garnished with large rugs, a deep lavish violet that seemed to cover every square inch of stone, almost trying to hide something from the few passersby that survived.

It was in this evil abode where the emperor rested, the epitome of everything that plagued Noxus.

It was here that the cruel, silver tonged tyrant, Jericho Swain made his lair. He had taken his title the same way others in a position of great power had gained theirs; by mercilessly ripping the crown from his deceased predecessors one by one, climbing the ranks like a ladder, despite his crippled leg.

Many had challenged him for his position on the throne, but once his remaining enemies gazed upon their carcasses, flesh torn and rotted by powerful necromancy, they had wisely opted to stay in the shadows that were so prevalent in Noxus, biding their time before someone else would surely come to topple The Master Tactician.

Yes, Swain was very powerful, but ultimately his startling brilliance and tact were what propelled him to where he stood today, for it surely wasn’t his appearance that wooed the stone hearts of his comrades. Skin so pale you’d swear he was corpse if you spied him snoring in his bedchamber peeked out from a long robe, a turtleneck covering his mouth but not his large, brutish nose. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short, and he was always, _always_ accompanied by his only true friend: a hulking, purple raven with six eyes, three on each side of its eternally grinning beak, perched upon his shoulder. Beatrice was her name, though only Swain knew that, just as only Swain knew of his origins.

Swain was mostly to blame for the regression of the Noxian society, although he did find allies in Generals and Commanders that believed in his cause.

It was Swain’s many speeches that had convinced the Noxian people of true strength, of abandoning those in need because anyone who couldn’t lift themselves without leeching off of others was weak, that anyone who couldn’t accept their leaders’ words as truth was weak, and was better left lying in the filth and grime of the gutters where blood and water ran in equal measures. Strength was praised and worshipped, almost as if the virtue itself was a powerful God subject to earth-shattering temper tantrums, whereas weakness was pitiful, shameful offense.

Riven had never noticed the poor mental state of the country she loved; it was her home, where she grew up, where she trained from an early age in the ways of the sword.

It was normal for the young girl to have never heard the words, “I love you” from her parents. It was normal for Riven to show up to combat practice with ugly bruises on her face and developing body because she “helped one of those weaklings, the Veeravallis,” or didn’t “address me as ‘Sir’, you disrespectful cretin.” She had never objected to the tyrannical insanity of her leader as she was just a simple soldier, unable to think on her own.

Or so she told herself.

Riven’s skill and resolve eventually attracted the attention of the High Command at an early age: at only a juvenile 14-years-old. The young, yet highly skilled warrior was the perfect poster child: she was strong, emotionless, and followed orders with ruthless efficiency.

She was the ideal warrior, the quintessential Noxian soldier.

And of course, why wouldn’t a perfect soldier deserve a perfect weapon?

It was just like her: tall, broad, and glowing with patriotic enthusiasm. Almost completely utilitarian. Dark, and filled to the brim with power.

It was also heavy, and awkward, but Riven wasn’t about to complain; she’d overcome worse adversity before.

Training with this sword, this goliath which could down giants, transformed her into a new being. Not that Riven wasn’t in peak physical condition already, but the circumstances- her sword- required more than what an average human was capable of.

So she trained. And trained, and trained, and trained for days on end until she soared over that peak and kept on flying. She was near-superhuman then, physique all muscle that wasn’t nearly as humble as it was before, possessing strength and speed and cunning that far outshined anyone she knew of, and, unbeknownst to her, almost anyone High Command knew of.

But for all her effort, the finely crafted weapon was still too bulky and odd for Riven to be comfortable with.

However, Riven still held one card close to her chest; unrestricted access to the military’s facilities in what little free time she possessed. This included one of the largest, most extensive libraries on the Continent, boasting a collection of over millions, maybe even _billions_ of texts and scriptures comprised of hundreds of countless subjects ranging from ancient mythology to the long-term effects of extended torture to compendiums of spell books, pages worn and ripped from constant fingering. Cookbooks sat on dusty shelves, outlining the proper way to season roasted chicken thighs and the difference between a pinch and a smidgeon (believe it or not, there is a very well-defined difference). Located inside the massive mountain supporting the home of their great, wonderful leader, the impressive bibliotheca was where Riven had unearthed a tome that would forever change her way of fighting.

From The Way of the Wind, possibly one of the last editions that existed on Runeterra, Riven discovered the legendary _Wind Technique_ , a long-forgotten martial art that utilized a universal element existing on all plains of thought and dimension.

It was the very air that whipped across plains and carved mountains out of blocks of the Earth like invisible sculptors chiseling away at their magnum opus to aid the swordswoman in battle.

The secret, she learned, was not to command the wind, for nothing could hold down the free spirit that enshrouded everything, living or inanimate.

Instead, she found she must ask it for help (something that would undoubtedly piss off her superiors), to guide her blade and herself with gusts of air that granted unparalleled speed and power for a weapon proportionate to her size. Not long after studying the dusty album, Riven’s combat prowess improved markedly; she could now easily best anyone in her squad, easily best anyone in _any_ squad.

The higher-ups noticed, once again, for their eye was all-seeing, and Riven found herself as the first ever to obtain the title of Noxian Military Commander during peacetime at the age of 17, an accomplishment she proudly boasted.

Then came the war that changed it all.

War was nothing new to Noxus; the bloodthirsty nation was almost always clashing swords with their neighbors and rivals, the Demacians, in the greedy hopes that they could conquer their cultural opposite and build a new empire in their smoldering remains. Unfortunately for the aggressive expansionists, the Demacians held firm in their resolve, and fought back with equal valor, never failing to force the opposing side into a bloody stalemate.

But Noxus wasn’t satisfied with what they viewed as a loss, and so the nation turned its bloody maw to the island country of Ionia. Spies under the guise of merchants and war refugees sailed across the Guardian Sea, reporting to Noxus the intricacies and weaknesses of the peaceful people.

In order to raise morale and discredit the voices of the concerned citizens who realized that Ionia had never instigated any form of conflict with the relentless state, Swain regularly bellowed carefully crafted speeches from his perch in a tower, using magic to amplify his voice so the simple peasants could get in on the action. Aimed at uniting all of Noxus beneath his terrible influence, he convinced his crowd that their neighbors across the way were weak in their fruitless, futile search for enlightenment.

“Their disgusting culture ails them! Their Elders fool them with ludicrous notions that enlightenment is the true path to greatness!” Swain’s voice boomed in conlusion. “They are weak, and _stupid_ creatures, not fit to rule themselves.”

“We will march across their lands! We will free the simpletons of these irrational concepts, these _poisonous_ concepts, and we will forge another great city for which the banner of Noxus will stand defiant!”

“They want enlightenment? Then we shall give them their enlightenment!”

“ _BLOOD FOR NOXUS!!_ ”

And his mass of loyal followers cheered, euphoric battle cries tainting the air, resounding off of giant skull whose emotionless expression hadn’t changed.

Riven found herself among the smelly, sweaty mosh pit one day as they screamed obscenities and war rallies. All in all, she was excited- she would finally engage in the ultimate test of skill: real combat, not just chopping endlessly at wooden dummies.

Regardless of the serendipitous opportunity, she was still on edge. Riven was not particularly keen on the idea of spilling the blood of a race that seemed so harmless.

But she would carry out her orders as instructed, just like any good soldier would.

 

**ooooo**

_Thwack, thwack, THWACK!_

The sound of steel hacking through solid oak reverberated off of the 10-foot metal fence that surrounded the training grounds.

A lone, platinum-blonde cleaved dummies in half in 3 successive blows, just as The Way of the Wind had instructed her.

“ _Attack in bursts, then retreat from your enemy and assess the damage. If the assault was ineffective, call upon the wind once more and listen to its infinite wisdom as it reveals your enemy’s true weakness, for the wind flies far and wide, witnessing many battles and clashes of steel and flesh._

“ _With this knowledge, strike again with renewed vigor_ ,” Riven could practically see the smudged text set upon withered, yellow pages in her mind’s eye as she practiced the technique over and over.

And so, with this knowledge, she struck again with renewed vigor, building a mountain of dummy corpses.

She suddenly became aware of footsteps, their light and quiet nature suggesting a woman’s. Riven halted her movements and spun on her heels, sword hand hanging limp at her side, chest heaving.

A beyond gorgeous redhead was strutting toward Riven, an old scar trailing languidly down her face, intersecting sickly green irises set on her.

The edges of full lips, rivers of glistering blood, spilled upward in a confident sneer, long burgundy locks that reached her lower back partially obscuring her right eye and flowing gently in the wind. Black combat boots more akin to heels than anything else ended just below the knees that overlapped trousers the color of the night that hugged her powerful legs like a second skin.

Several belts sporting kunai, razor-sharp and glinting from the flames of a nearby brazier, snaked around her thick thighs and thin waist. A faint tattoo of a spindly dragon of knives curled over the exposed silky paleness of her bare midriff, and above that, her considerable bust was supported by a corset, a very short, tight corset that left the tops of her breasts exposed.

A light jacket wrapped around that, two fiendish blades that could split a hair into fourths strapped to her back, and fingerless gloves surrendered petite, deceptively agile digits to the frosty .

Overall, the woman’s outfit left very little to the imagination, shamelessly flaunting a curvy, hourglass figure. Riven briefly wondered if her rather slutty getup was to distract the enemy or “distract” the enemy.

‘ _Probably both_ ,’ she concluded.

“You’re sharp. Most people can’t hear me 2 steps away, let alone 20 feet.” Smooth and very suggestive.

Riven should be swooning now: powerful, sexy, _and_ dangerous? That was the perfect combo, as far as she was concerned.

But Riven wasn’t swooning; she was cringing.

There was a glint of something in her eye, something not very well hidden.

“I’m not most people,” Riven’s tone was factual and cautious; there had been many in her company who’d attempted to knock her off in an effort to enjoy the luxuries of her position as captain (hint: there were none), and although she didn’t recognize the woman closing the distance, she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t been paid off. Her crew was definitely dastardly enough to employ such an underhanded, cowardly tactic, and so she stood taller, a fierce gleam highlighting scarlet irises.

The woman’s gaze bathed over the Commander, taking everything in with hungry eyes.

She licked her lips.

“I can see that.”

She winked.

Riven shivered, and not in a good way. “You’ve been watching me. Why?”

It was true; for years a slim figure had silently spectated her training bouts from one of the many shadows of Noxus. A slim figure with long hair, knives at her back, and a chilly sense of…

…Something Riven couldn’t place, but she didn’t like it.

An impressed, “Hmph.” Then, “You really aren’t like most people.”

She rested a hand on her side, hips cocked off-center in a decidedly sultry pose.

“You already said that.”

“I know,” she snapped, a snarl passing over her face both arresting and unnerving before she could regain her composure.

‘ _Impatient_ ,’ Riven thought. She decided to press her advantage, exploiting the stranger’s weakness.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Listen here, you little shit, I’m trying to help you,” she growled. “Besides, _I’m_ the one that asks the questions, not you. Got it?”

She sounded exasperated, as if this hadn’t followed some perfect plan in that pretty little head of hers.

Riven didn’t respond.

An irked sigh escaped the woman’s glistening lips as she gave up all attempts to appear seductive. Riven inwardly sighed with relief. It wasn’t that she didn’t swing that way- she did-; the woman in front of her putting on a show was simply not her type. Then again, was crazy anyone’s type? She couldn’t say.

Riven broke the silence, “…What kind of questions would you have?”

The stranger lifted her head, near flawless face twisted into a sinister grin, and that glint returned to her eyes. The distance between them gradually vanished, but it was still too fast for Riven’s preference.

She didn’t stop until her nose was ghosting over Riven’s.

The redhead was slightly shorter than Riven, but the woman’s presence invading her personal space was still plenty intimidating. Riven stood her ground, a grimace taking hold of her darker complexion.

When the woman spoke, Riven felt hot breath that smelled of… lotus flowers? That couldn’t be right.

“Tell me something, Riven,” the sensual accent was completely absent, giving rise to a very off-putting smirk. There was a dramatic pause before the redhead finally spoke. Her locution was drawling and goading, and there was a distinct lull between each word, like this was the highlight of her day, of her week.

“Do you fear death?”

It was almost whispered, and Riven finally deciphered what the glint was.

She’d seen it in the grim expression of her troops, the undying ambition for promotion. She’d heard of its lust in the throes of Swain’s speeches. And occasionally, she’d witnessed its effects in herself when she peered into a puddle after an intensive training bout.

Obsession.

With Riven, no less.

She shivered again.

The woman’s calculating eyes extensively examined Riven’s, finally concluding in satisfaction, “You don’t. Good.”

Her hard gaze never let up, even when she casually offered, “There is no room for cowards in the Crimson Elite.”

Just like that, all disgust vacated from her. This woman held everything, her reason for living, in the palm of her hand, and just maybe Riven could forget the previous revelation.

She couldn’t suppress a twinge of disbelieving excitement from flashing for the briefest second.

The woman threw back her head, letting loose a high pitched cackle.

To Riven’s discomfort, the erotic look returned to the woman’s face as she spoke, “Perform your duties well in the upcoming purge of those fools overseas and you will earn your rightful position among Noxus’ most feared.”

And then the woman kissed Riven, wringing her slender hands around her neck to pull her in close.

It was not loving or passionate; though her lips were warm it was frigid, and cruel, and vile, and manipulative, and completely unwanted.

Riven noticed with no small amount of alarm that the woman’s tongue prodded at her lips, attempting to gain entry into Riven’s mouth. This was not okay- none of it was okay, but _that_ was _definitely_ not okay- and Riven would’ve removed the woman by force if she hadn’t released herself on her own accord, licking her lips and severing the strand of saliva that bridged the gap.

She winked.

Then she rounded to face where she’d entered from and sauntered away, hips swaying voluptuously, provocatively, inviting the shocked woman to stare at her assets.

When Riven finally recovered from her surprised stupor, she spat at the dirt, removing as much of the woman as she could. She was accustomed to overly-eager fans, but this was a step too far.

Indignantly, “Do you suck face with every new recruit?!”

The woman laughed her piercing laugh, then addressed the instigative comment without pausing her departure from the arena, “Only the attractive ones.”

Then, she added, “The name is Katarina, if you were looking for more of _that_ ~.”

“I wasn’t,” Riven replied, appalled at the suggestion. ‘ _How easy does she think I am?_ ’

There was no reply, but Riven couldn’t care less. Her mind was dancing on other subjects, namely the offer to ascend into the Crimson Elite. The squad of men and women alike was comprised of only the most skilled fighters in the Noxus Military, the most dedicated to their craft of killing, the most experienced, and she was floored that the position already dangled at her fingertips.

Securing a place among the legendary battalion feared by every nation in Valoran had been Riven’s lifetime goal, something she thought she’d achieve after decades of hard work. And the fact that High Command thought her talented enough to pin that red badge to her armor had her giddier than she’d been in too long.

But something Katarina had let slip during their disturbingly intimate moment plagued Riven’s mind with unrest.

Katarina was talking about a purge of Ionia, but as far as Riven knew from Swain’s electrifying addresses, their ultimate goal was to set up shop somewhere new, not exterminate the masses.

With that, Riven waltzed back to the barracks deep in thought, still high on elation- although the sun’s outline was still visible through the thick layer of fibrous clouds looming ominously above, the warrior in her would need all of the strength and energy she could muster for the coming days.

As she settled into her bed, a scratchy fleece mattress not fit for a common criminal filled with goose feather that leaked from an unknown source, her eyelids fluttered shut, dourly determined upon resting well for her travels across the vast Guardian Sea that was tomorrow.

Riven didn’t sleep a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading up to this point, and I hope you'll continue reading. I figure now is the time to say that I'm not bashing on any characters; I'm just writing them as I interpret them. The same goes for all of Riven's ideals, though this is much more apparent in later chapters; I'll never try and preach to you, I'm just explaining Riven's beliefs. Please leave a comment, and I'll see y'all next time!


	3. Genocide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the attention and the support even though I'm only two chapters in! Enjoy another chapter, please tell me what you think, and I'll see you next time!

**12 Years Ago**

 

Beneath a black swathe of sky speckled by brilliant stars, a fishing village lounged on the shoreline of Southern Ionia.

Tiny, quiet, quaint, the community of fishermen dozed blissfully in huts of sturdy, reliable bamboo and rooves vigorously thatched from grass. The people didn’t have much- just their families of little boys and girls, fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers. Their imperfect homes, the lovely moon whose white light washed over the cluster of wooden shacks. The silent, silvery sea.

But they were content.

An orchard swelled inland in rows behind the clustered shanties, cherry trees yielding their beautiful blossoms to the night sky. Oodles of rosé petals descended peacefully from their perches, twirling and scattering in the warm breeze in a whimsical waltz, eventually resting with great care onto the cold dirt and grass of the earthen floor. The ground was almost invisible, obscured by a thick rug of fuchsia leaves that was steadily growing thicker.

The cherry blossoms surrendering their limbs to Runeterra stood stalk still, noble guardians standing at attention, watching over their keepers as they slept soundly in shelters of their sturdier counterparts.

And though their efforts were honorable, fearless, and gallant, nothing could save the villagers from their fate.

The end began with the moon.

A monstrous blob that extinguished the stars where it trailed slowly drifted from the horizon, from the Void, from pure darkness.

But before it was to sink its venomous talons into the seashore shantytown, its greedy gaze caught sight of the pale discus floating in an ocean of obsidian, and it ambled away, sidetracked for but a moment. Its maw nibbled on the heavenly body, then chewed, then then chomped, and then it was ripping off chunks, gradually consuming the poor moon until there was nothing left.

The land was cast into an impenetrable shadow, darkness enshrouding anything and everything. All sound was extinguished- crickets ceased their incessant chirping, the wind died, and the tar black sea halted all movements.

There was an eerie calm, like the world was watching aghast, as the colorless mass in the sky turned its sights to the village, its ravenous appetite far from sated.

Then all of a sudden, the being pounced.

The sky exploded with a new light as great, green blobs of liquid death erupted from the underbelly. In the luminescence, the creature revealed its true face: a massive blimp of Zaunite design with cannons that slung hazardous chemicals melded to cabin of the flying behemoth.

Toxic meteors rained upon the unsuspecting inhabitants below, bursting as they connected with the Earth. Florid sludge bathed the town in poisonous mucus, destroying everything it touched with emerald fire and scalding acid and screams of the damned.

Then, as sudden as the rain of green fire had started, the apocalypse finished.

Or so it seemed.

In the maelstrom’s place, hundreds of black warships appeared on the horizon, a dozen or so breaking formation and gliding to the shoreline, running aground their hulking bodies to release the swarm of steel clad demons grasping weapons of all sizes and shapes, hollering and screeching their unearthly war cries.

But among the black river of Noxian invaders, one warrior in particular stood out. A single soldier was walking, stumbling over their feet, staring dumbly at the village under siege. She couldn’t believe her eyes, didn’t _want_ to believe her eyes: High Command intel had said that this was an military outpost whose utter decimation was vital. High Command had not identified this as a harmless fishing village.

And yet, there they were. Treating fishermen like the Void’s snarling cur, torching homes like matchsticks, cremating more people at a time than Riven had ever seen.

The Zaunite chemical concoctions burned with a vile light, illuminating the massacre as the macabre mix slowly disintegrated the woody stalks of bamboo, swept across twiggy mats, boring craters through dirt.

With fingers that responded sluggishly, Riven lifted her helmet from her face, shaggy locks of platinum-blonde jutting in awkward cowlicks from her scalp.

Riven gaped in horror as whole families were violently extracted from their homes, bags of sleep under their eyes and terror scoring across their faces. Her stomach lurched as she witnessed the same, tearful families, families of children and parents and grandparents, were forced to their knees. Her lungs refused to suck in air as she witnessed the gruesomely efficient executions that sent heads rolling and blood flooding across the sacred ground.

And then there was the _sound_.

Screams of petrifying fear and unimaginable pain. Screams of fathers awaking to find their son’s faces literally melted off by stinking green bile. Screams of mothers witnessing their daughters’ innocence being violently torn from their grasps by the merciless invaders. The screams crept around her heart like thorny tendrils, and she bled and bled and bled.

And then Riven realized that these men and women, these monsters committing unspeakable atrocities, reported directly to _her_. Those were _her_ soldiers ransacking and looting. Those were _her_ officers slaughtering men, women, and children like cattle, or pigs. The screams and the death and the blood was all _Riven’s_ fault.

Her startled fingers could only keep hold of her helmet for so long, and the helmet piffed against the sand.

‘ _This is war_ ,’ Riven thought.

But surely this couldn’t be war? This wasn’t an epic battle between two equal forces. This didn’t look like the pictures in the books, didn’t sound like the tales of veterans around a tavern’s table. This wasn’t a breeding ground for heroes.

‘ _No,_ ’ she corrected herself, ‘ _not war_.’

A cold shiver.

‘ _This…This is an extermination. This is a holocaust. This is… This is genocide_.’

Then a blasphemous idea.

‘ _Swain lied._ ’

“Riven, darling Riven,” a feminine voice drawled to her right. “Why the hesitation? Do you not relish the suffering of these Ionian pigs?”

The shocked woman angled her head, neck frozen by disbelief. She glared at Katarina, a furious scowl seizing her face, and she spat, “What the fuck is going on? Why are we killing these people?”

A hoarse, immature voice screeched somewhere close by, and the ear-grating noise cut to a sickening splutter. Riven didn’t need to see to know what just happened.

“Why are we killing children?!”

A dreadful grin spawned on Katarina’s face as a bloodthirsty twinkle decorated eyes that blazed the same color, the same toxicity and intensity of the green puddles crusting over into black.

There was something else there as well; freely displayed in the redhead’s irises resided _lust_. But not for Riven; rather, for murder and blood and carnage and all things oozing sticky crimson. Riven was appalled.

Katarina recognized the expression, but her demented, toothy smile only widened deeper into madness. She cackled.

“You didn’t _really_ think we were going to ‘ _free the simpletons from their irrational concepts,_ ’ did you?” She studied Riven’s face, then an incredulous, “You did! Ha!”

And then Katarina’s tone was painfully dismissive. “I misjudged you, Riven. An inability to realize what’s best for Noxus? You obviously must not be Crimson Elite material.”

It stung, worse than the wayward green spark that occasionally flecked her cheeks, and Riven found herself spluttering and stumbling over her words before pathetically reassuring, “Am too!”

Katarina smirked, then haughtily commanded, “Prove it.”

She extended her arm, index finger of her gloved hand pointing at something and then curling it in a _come here_ motion.

Riven looked to what the redhead was indicating. Her heart halted, her stomach ready to spill its contents.

Two brutes soaked with red carried a young girl no older than 8 between them.

She was light skinned, as all Ionians were, and she was bawling, legs swinging and kicking in a futile, desperate attempt to free herself from her captors’ gorilla like hands. She wore a nightgown of animal skin sewn together with strips of bamboo bark and an expression of unadulterated panic. On her chest, a curious insignia carved into a wooden disc 3 inches in diameter was somehow suspended on her shirt that rose and fell rapidly with her heaving chest.

The symbol surely stood for something, though for what, Riven couldn’t discern. Riven could read, write, and speak Ionian, as was necessary for their preparations for war, but the symbol wasn’t a common letter or a word. Instead, it was a jumble of many letters and words, a frustrating enigma.

The soldiers, fed up with trying to restrain the young brat, unceremoniously tossed her into the blood-soaked mud in front Riven. As she scrambled to her feet, Riven’s horrified gaze averted until she looked to Katarina’s.

With a wicked smirk, Katarina stared into Riven’s scared eyes, silently conveying a bone-chilling message. Riven deciphered the savage gleam of brutal anticipation in the redhead’s irises.

“No…,” Riven whispered, eyes widening in unconcealed dismay. “No, no I won’t-…”

“Are you sure about that, Riven?” Katarina’s voice was smooth and placid, but threatening undertones accentuated every word, every flicker in toxic eyes.

When Riven remained paralyzed by indecision, Katarina continued in that voice, “She is _Ionian_. She is nothing, a plague upon Runeterra, a weed that must be uprooted to ensure the rise of the strong.

Katarina was close now, almost whispering in Riven’s ear, “ _And the only true method of removing a weed…is to sever the roots_.”

The young girl drew in a breath.

Riven remained still as a corpse, gaze locked on the child that stood before her.

The child was gorgeous, sinless and rosy and frail as a cherry blossom. Her face, once smiling and eternally happy, was plastered with dirt and grime, trails of glass tears soaking up the mud and leaving a distinguishable path that revealed a streak of soft skin. Her pouty lips quivered in fear, snot running from her sniffling button-nose. Charcoal locks dangled in long, ornate braids decorated with twigs, sticks, and flowers of various sizes and hues.

She’d stopped crying, but she was still so afraid.

Then Riven noticed those eyes, those big, gorgeous, cerulean eyes that drilled straight into Riven’s soul. They conveyed shock, terror, grief, but the most noticeable emotion swimming in deep, blue depths was confusion. Confusion as to why she was sentenced to die, even though she’d done nothing to deserve this.

Riven was confused too.

Riven didn’t know what to do. Refuse, and she would be branded weak, and her dreams would shatter. Submit to the assassin egging her on, and she would murder someone that hadn’t ever been given the chance to live their life.

Riven thought back to Noxus, to the imposing, black pyres of smoke, and to the deathly quiet that hung over the city. She imagined the families living in huts not unlike those razed by the Zaunite gunship still hovering over them.

Noxus was facing an undeniable issue. Normally, with the city-state perpetually at war, the death count broke even with the number of births. However, with their bloody conflict with Demacia on hold, there was nothing to keep the population in check, and the slums bordering the metropolitan multiplied every day.

Riven was not ignorant to the city’s dilemma; she could deduce that the “liberation” of the Ionian Islands was not only for spreading their brutal ideals. Noxus needed land to survive, it was as simple as that. And in a sick, revolting way, it made sense that Swain would order what amounts to an ethnic cleansing: there wasn’t enough room for the two of them. Riven saw sound logic to the young girls demise, she reluctantly concluded.

But to commit such a foul, unforgivable deed, to end an innocent child’s life? Riven was still unconvinced.

‘ _You are a soldier, Riven._ ’

‘ _You do not think, you act. Your survival is not important. Your superiors call the shots, you simply follow them._ ’

‘ _If they order an assault on the Void itself, you are to kick down the gates and attack. If they order you to drop to your knees and give them pleasure, you drop to your knees and open wide. If they order the execution of a defenseless child…_ ’

_“…then you execute…_ ” The words wouldn’t even form in her mind.

With arms quaking harder than an earthquake, she raised her giant weapon behind her, now aware of how hilariously overkill it seemed right now. She coiled her arms, preparing to strike in a horizontal blow that would end her painlessly.

Then the young girl shattered her convictions, forcing Riven to pause mid swing.

“Why?” was all she squeaked, blue globes perplexed and depressed and scared.

Her tone was small, feeble, heartbreaking. Riven stared at her, absorbing the sensible question, trying and failing to come up with an answer.

“Why?”

She repeated when the woman didn’t reply, hands wringing the fabric of her nightgown.

Katarina’s voice tinged with annoyance intruded upon the moment, “Don’t listen to the little brat. Do it.”

Nothing.

“You heard me, Riven. Do it,” louder, and more commanding.

Still nothing.

“Do it, dammit!” she shouted.

Still, Riven didn’t move.

“As your superior, I demand you carry out your order!” Katarina leaned in close, seethed into her ear, “ _Do it_.”

Riven hesitated.

Then Katarina smacked her, screeched, “ _DO IT_!”

The pitch shook Riven out of her trance.

She inhaled, slammed her eyelids shut as hard as she could, and swung. She sensed the vibration as the blade connected, but it felt off, like it hit more bone than there should have been in the average young girl’s neck.

When she opened her eyes, she discovered why.

Instead of intersecting at her throat, the massive blade had cut two inches higher than had been intended, and now the girl’s mandible was attached to her body by only a few stringy tendons while her twitching tongue lay dormant in the crease between her immature teeth. Riven could make out a faint bulk in the meatier cross-section that must have been her spine. Tubes that must have been the girl’s esophagus enthusiastically pumped blood the color of Riven’s eyes like a grisly fountain. Riven searched the ground, befuddled when she couldn’t locate the missing piece.

Then, she looked up.

Suspended in air like the atmosphere was an invisible jelly, was the chunk previously unaccounted for. Slowly, so slowly, the head twirled, a thick, scarlet ribbon lazily fluttering alongside her charcoal braids as the glazed eyes ascended to heaven as casually as a flitting butterfly.

There was no sound, no breeze, nothing to indicate the liveliness of the world around her, around the young girl. An eerie silence that enveloped everything.

The head paused at the apex, staring at the stars solemnly for eons.

Then, the head descended with just as much grace as a ballerina, as much tranquility as a rosy cherry blossom tumbling to the earth, and when the head collided with the earth, it bounced once, the ribbon melting into the sand, then rolled between Riven’s feet, halting when it bumped against her toe.

‘ _You did this to me_ ,’ said the milky eyes drowsy with death, said the lifeless pallor of the plush cheeks.

The weight of her actions forced Riven to her knees, her weapon slipping through her fingers and landing with a dull _thud_. She was vaguely aware of high-pitched cackling, but her attention was all on the juvenile form in front of her as the rigid body finally collapsed backwards, blood mixing with the wet sand beneath it.

Riven gently lifted the head, fingers waving through waves of silk, thumb brushing away tears, just staring at the face of her first victim. Her first kill wasn’t an Ionian warrior strapped valiantly with layers of armor, with the will to fight in their eyes, with the honor of a fair fight exchanged with each blow.

Her first kill was a young girl, a defenseless, innocent, young girl. Piercing, blue eyes once more penetrated through Riven’s very being, and in that brief moment, Riven wished it a real blade that would recompense this deed she’d done.

Riven brought the head to her chest, hugging it closely, affectionately, as a warm wetness dripped down her breastplate and drenched her under armor, and bowed her own to stare at the sand.

Her face was hot, her throat tight, her eyelids squeezed shut as salty tears cascaded down her cheeks and mixed with the red dirt she kneeled upon. She sobbed silently, choking and shuddering on her own breath, on her own guilt that consumed her like the blood consumed the sand.

The girl’s question was so simple, and yet Riven didn’t know the answer. In all her years, she’d never stopped to think, would always assume that High Command had their reasons. But now, as her ignorance cost a life that needn’t be lost, the question repeated over and over and over until it spilled into the sand like everything.

“Why?” she asked feebily.

But Katarina didn’t answer.

No one did, in fact, because they’d forgotten her- their Commander- in their collective adrenaline rush toward the next target. Riven wasn’t worried them, though. Besides, Riven imagined Katarina enjoyed complete dominance in all aspects of life, so she figured they’d manage without her.

Riven sniffled, then stood on wobbly legs, still clutching the decapitated appendage to her chest like a mother would a babe. She would bury the body, she decided; it was the least she could do for the poor girl.

Her slippery sword was a makeshift shovel as she efficiently harrowed a grave into the earth, carved the first letter into the book of war that would, unbeknownst to her, be comprised of hundreds, thousands of pages before the last word was written. Riven chose a different spot to lay the girl to rest; it was a great distance away, atop a dune with a clear view of the ocean, where she could watch the breakers and the whitewater until the end of time.

And then, glumly satisfied with her work, she sprinted through the trees, branches whipping her face until she mysteriously appeared amidst her pack. No one noticed, except Katarina, who threw nothing more than a sideways glance toward her. There was a withering remark, but Riven couldn’t care less what the woman had to say.

 

**ooooo**

 

At the child-sized mound of earth, on the dune that overlooked the ocean’s black beauty, a cross of singed bamboo strung together by strands of grass, of remorse held aloft by guilt, guarded over the deceased, sullenly protecting the spirit of the young girl whose pretty eyes would never see another sunrise.

She would never know her answer, but there were worse things.

She would never see the city that she used to babble constantly about to her mom and pop. She would never again hang cheery, sweet-smelling garland of daisies and daffodils from the walls of her home that smoldered and rotted. She would never again experience pain or sorrow or grief. Or happiness or merriment or triumph. She would never fall in love.

Etched into the grave marker that faced the peaceful sea were three words:

“ _I don’t know._ ”


	4. The Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for so much support! I've tried to follow advice and make the characters more of apart of the pretty scenery, so hopefully this chapter is better than the others. Enjoy!

**12 Years Ago**

The man was young and tall, and though his form was slender, he was in no sense of the word weak. His shirtless chest revealed his washboard abs marred by scars and atop his shoulder of his arms braided with thick ropes of muscle was a pauldron woven by wisps of silver wind. Sky blue pants concealed lean, muscular legs, and quick feet were bare and gnarled by a lifetime of no shoes. His hair was jet black, and locked in a hurricane that perpetually swirled atop the rear of his handsome head.

Eyes the color of chestnuts darted impatiently around the room where he stood. They washed over the soft bursts of flickering candlelight through pasty papyrus dividers, over Ionian insignias painted on fluttering banners with swift strokes of red. They quickly glanced over artistry scratched dexterously into rigid cloth with charcoal, because he was a warrior and artistry did not interest him, and lingered over the plates of protective parchment layered over themselves like scales and the ceremonial katanas that gleamed on displays, because he was a warrior and these things interested him greatly.

Most of all, the eyes of Autumn’s fragile leaves focused on the frail back wrapped in a carmine robe that meditated on the floor in the center of the foyer.

“Yasuo!” the voice was stern but calm, old and wise like the kneeling man. “Cease that restless pacing! Worrying does no one any good.”

Yasuo eyed the shrine before the kneeling man, glanced at the vials of cinnamon and vanilla incense that wafted next to an arrangement of candles encircling stone miniatures of the gods and goddesses the temple’s inhabitants worshipped.

He blew air out his nose, pulled his lip into a brief snarl, and shook his head. He did not cease his restless pacing.

“Praying will not save you, old man.”

The old man didn’t turn his balding head of white hair, nor his face wrinkled and tranquil. His eyelids didn’t even open. “But you can, I presume?”

Yasuo stood taller, listened to the clash of steel that drifted from the gardens, over the sandy rock floor of the training grounds, and through the gaping doorless doorway that he paced before. The battle called to him, and though he desperately wished to answer it, his orders were to stay put and stay in the temple.

‘ _Stay in here and wait to die_ ,’ Yasuo thought.

The temple had been a center for both worship through prayer and worship through the arts, both martial, as dictated by the padded arenas and the wooden training dummies and the obstacle courses, and spiritual, as displayed by paintings and sewn tapestries and abandoned instruments tucked away into cots.

As such, the black, tiled roof that swooped down until it curled back in on itself at the corners weren’t built to withstand a hail of flaming arrows, and the cloth walls weren’t pressed to stave off a horde of invaders. The gardens where raked plots of sand and rocks were on exhibition for visitors were not created with easily defended chokepoints in case of attack, and because of all of this, Yasuo thought the temple was quite possibly the worst place in the valley to stack up and defend what needed defending.

“I should not be in here,” Yasuo grumbled. “Protecting an old man. Anyone can protect an old man. I would be so much more useful out on the battlefield…”

The designated Elder of the Navori province, the person whose extraction team was currently late for the pick up, sighed when his bodyguard continued to stew in his own ego.

Shon-Xan had fallen. The Elder silent, likely executed, the island province was the first to suffer the Noxian attack, and not hours later, reports indicated that Galrin had fallen as well. The Navori province was the only province that had answered the Council of Elders’ call for evacuation, but the Elder had stayed where he was. “I only leave when the last child has left,” he had said.

And here he was, the last civilian in the Navori province. But he couldn’t quite leave yet; the Council was unsure of exactly how far and where the Noxian assault had reached, and so the man was ordered to sit tight and wait.

Wait while the Kashuld Clan defended the temple and staved off the Noxian attack.

“Alright, Yasuo,” the Elder said as he raised himself from the mat with his quaking bones. “Who would protect me?”

Yasuo eyed him, frowned. “Anyone but me.”

The screams of dying men were close now, closer than they were but a minute ago, and their proximity boiled the Shogun’s blood. So many of his brother’s lives wasted because his role was chosen poorly…

‘ _If they reach the dojo, it is all over anyways…_ ’ he thought.

The Elder must have noticed a change in the man’s stance. “Where do you think you are going?”

But he already knew the answer.

“I will stop cowering here for one.” He turned to look at the Elder, whose hands were held behind his back, whose eyes stared with disappointment. “Stay here and no harm will come to you.”

“I am not so sure,” the Elder replied.

Yasuo didn’t hear him though; his powerful legs were already carrying him through the training grounds, beneath the spider web of paper lanterns gently casting the only light onto the sand.

He rounded a single corner and paused, hand on the hilt of his sheathed weapon. He grimaced at the situation.

Although the dark curtains of night had descended upon the valley, the opposing forces were not difficult to distinguish.

The elegant blue strips that seemed to flow off of the wearer in waves were the Ionians, more specifically the Clansmen. Their shimmering blades whistled through the air, slicing their foes in sooth strikes that flowed effortlessly into the next move.

In contrast, the attacking Noxians donned heavy, bulky plate on their chests and their arms and their heads that would receive the strongest blows with ease. Their weapons weren’t polished or supremely cared for, but they were made just well enough to be effective. So, crude and duller at the edge, but nonetheless useful in the act of killing. They fought with an emphasis on strength and speed and relentlessness and though they seemed random and inefficient, the spontaneity of their strikes proved incredibly difficult to avoid.

Axes and swords alike were red with the blood of Yasuo’s clan mates, and that just served to kindle the flames raging in his heart of war.

They were losing; even though the Kashuld Clansmen felled at least three Noxians before they were slain, there were just too many Noxians to keep up. They were gradually backing towards the dojo.

Yasuo eyed the writhing mass of bodies, selecting a group of Samurai that seemed to be in the middle of a rock and a hard place.

He unsheathed his weapon, trailed a careful finger over its face upon which the moon pooled and dripped down the length as he tilted the blade, and relished the feel of the wind whip around his body.

He looked up, glared at the invaders, and then Yasuo was sprinting like the wind, with the wind.

**ooooo**

Whoever the blue warrior was, he was thoroughly kicking their asses.

The tide of battle had shifted drastically; Riven’s forces could no longer advanced on the temple thanks to the single Ionian cutting down dozens of her men effortlessly. While the men dead at her feet may not have been the most pleasant or civilized crowd, they were still her soldiers, and she had grown to respect many of them.

Not _all_ of them had participated in the series of slaughters that lead her to here.

Perhaps that was why they were stuttering here? Why her commands were more feeble and less rationale now as opposed to the beginning?

She hadn’t killed any children, but was a defenseless twenty-five-year-old any better? Maybe a smidgeon, but they stacked up, and even now Riven could see the look in their eyes just before they died.

But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was the battle.

And Riven knew that if they had any chance of succeeding in their mission, she would either need to face the lone warrior one-on-one or find a different path to the target safely nestled inside the belly of the dojo.

At the moment, Riven couldn’t formulate a plan that allowed her to easily slip away; she herself had slain so many Ionians that even when she attempted to seek refuge behind a wall of Noxian soldiers, the Samurai would simply fight their way through the throng to engage her regardless. Even if she did manage to disappear from their radar, the only path to the dojo was wide open and unobstructed.

This left her the only option to dispatch of the shirtless Shogun once and for all, but for the first time ever, Riven wasn’t confident in her ability to win the fight.

She had noticed the telltale gusts of cool night air, his propensity to attack in bursts of three, and his inhuman speed. He was the first user of the _Wind Technique_ Riven had ever seen, and it unnerved her that she had no idea whatsoever how to counter the style.

She couldn’t count on Katarina- while her handling of a blade was nothing to be ashamed of, she was an assassin at heart, specializing in backstabs and stealthy maneuvers rather than open engagement.

‘ _If it’ll win the battle…_ ’

She inhaled deeply, steeling herself and her will. She’d never feared death. It was permanent, sure, but it came for everybody at some time or another. And besides, she didn’t have room in her head to fear death.

What she feared was letting her country down.

Sword in hand, she waded through her comrades to face the unknown warrior on the front lines.

He was currently dealing with four of Riven’s soldiers at once with expert blows placed in unprotected locations, and the moment they were swiftly cut down, he turned to face the woman standing not far from where he was positioned.

An air of understanding, and he was commanding his warriors to make way. A convenient clearing opened seconds later, the border shifting and bleeding and screaming but retaining same basic shape.

She eyed him, his sword that was raised vertically before him and the sheen that glimmered from his sword and his eyes, his hair that swirled atop his head. She breathed evenly, forced the screams from her mind, and focused on him.

Riven raised her sword at an angle diagonal and downward. The blade was so long that the tip stirred the dirt.

They lunged simultaneously, blades colliding with a loud _clang!_ and then were locked, vying for dominance, straining to loosen the other’s footing.

To the blue warrior’s visible surprise, Riven was stronger, _much_ stronger, gradually pushing him backwards so that his feet were sliding through the dirt. But he didn’t show the least amount of concern, just grudging respect.

He had a few tricks up his nonexistent sleeve, as Riven would come to discover.

A stray lock of hair whipped in a breeze, reminding her that though she was still armored shoulder to toe, her head was still exposed.

The breeze worsened into blinding gusts, and suddenly Riven was aware that for once, the wind was _not_ in her favor.

And then, to Riven’s wide eyes, a massive pillar of air had collected behind the Shogun, raging and screeching and sucking the tan from her flesh.

All at once, the swirling maelstrom of wind sprung forth, smashing into Riven with enough force to crush a bear’s ribcage and as she tumbled painfully into the dirt, there was agony in her side.

However, pain never stopped Riven, so she ignored the agony and scrabbled to her feet.

And rolled backward with a grunt to dodge a silver flash of steel not two inches away from where her exposed throat would’ve been.

She finished the cartwheel with a kneel and barely parried three of the fastest consecutive strikes she’d ever seen, her ribs complaining with every crash of their swords.

Her back was now practically pressed against the walls of the “arena”, and she was nearly impaled by a stray thrust of a spear from one of her own troops. Finding the smallest gap between a set of three slashes, she rolled away, more towards the center.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t quick enough, and she felt punishment for her lack of speed in the searing pain of a shallow wound in her back inflicted by an impossibly agile blade. Riven’s adrenaline was coursing through her veins, though, so she hardly noticed the injury.

Riven was now standing in the middle of the open dirt patch in the middle of the melee. Her battalion had gained the upper hand during their confrontation, and the warrior noticed the reversion.

Riven didn’t even have half a second to breath before the Samurai struck again. She realized with dismay that in her current state, she was outmatched. Unless she finally revealed her ace in the hole, she would join her fallen comrades on the battlefield, her blood oozing, her crimson eyes glazed by death.

The speed at which the blue warrior closed the distance between them startled Riven, and she was inches away from her demise once again.

He almost seemed to glide over the ground on a carpet of air, and with his obvious mastery of the _Wind Technique_ , it wouldn’t surprise Riven if that were the case. She couldn’t believe how fast and proficient the man was at the art of swordplay; whatever attempt at an attack she made was swiftly and efficiently parried, then countered with a gust of icy wind or a powerful, bare foot to her abdomen.

Her stomach ached from the abuse, and her shoulders and elbows were scuffed and dirtied from countless somersaults into the earth. While she was tired and sweating profusely, he didn’t seem mildly fazed.

Then, in a stroke of luck, a stray, uncertain strike managed to counter the Shogun’s final move in his series of three. She shoved him off balance, her foot striking his stomach, and with a cry she slammed the ground.

A quick, green burst, and her inner Ki exploded violently from her body. The outburst threw him several feet backwards, but he recovered halfway through and transferred the remaining momentum into an impressive backflip.

He regained his stance immediately, but the wall of solid air borne from the very tip of Riven’s blade swept across the field and reached him before anyone could blink.

He was very clearly not expecting the move and it showed; he didn’t even make an attempt to dodge the barrier of wind. Crying out in bewilderment, he sailed straight into the thick horde of warriors exchanging deadly blows.

He was so caught off guard that his katana had been ripped from his skillful hands and plunged itself into a mound of earth reddened by blood, radiating wind.

Instead of hunting the man down, Riven wisely decided to make a break for the dojo. If the Ionians spotted her, they would be too busy fighting for their lives to stop the Commander from breaking form.

As she sprinted from the melee, the adrenaline wore away and every injury she’d suffered stung like she’d just then received all of them at once. She stumbled into a wall, wincing, clutching her ribs, and then to dull the pain she punched the ground. Which only made it hurt worse, because moving her arm meant moving the muscle over her ribs.

She coughed, and just a smattering of blood peppered the rear of her armor hand. Face grim and panting heavily, she pushed herself from the wall and dragged her sword along behind her like an uncooperative pet dog. It certainly felt like it, with the weight and all.

Right as Riven was about to round the corner to the training grounds, an almost inaudible thump sounded from above. Riven’s heart kick started, her ribs stabbing deeper, thinking the near invincible warrior had dropped in for a rematch.

But the blood roaring in her ears died down when the person spoke.

“Sloppy,” a feminine voice berated her.

Behind her, Katarina stood tall and confident clutching dual blades soaked in red.

“With form like that, how did you ever expect to defeat him?

Rven snorted, noting the ugly bruises and the red gashes over her stomach and her shoulders. “You don’t look so good yourself. Did you finally meet someone who was more sinister than the Sinister Blade?”

The taunt made the assassin flinch, and Riven couldn’t hold back a smug grin of satisfaction. She coughed again, and this time, Katarina was smiling at the scarlet that speckled the dirt.

“Says the one who got their ass handed to them by some shirtless prick with a fancy sword.”

“As if you could beat him?” Riven scoffed.

The assassin was definitely good, but the Riven would bet her hard earned money that not even Katarina could best the Shogun that was likely tearing through her Noxian cohorts.

Riven hoped the “Threat to Noxian National Security” was worth the bloodshed and the broken ribs.

Katarina ignored the comment, instead waltzing around the corner to stroll up to the entrance of the temple. “I located the quarry while you were dancing around with your thumb up your ass.”

Riven bristled, but didn’t respond. Reluctantly, she followed Katarina to the open entryway.

The corridors were long and mazelike, the whole temple lit dimly by candles. There were no people in the temple, no one sleeping in cots or hunched over desks writing goodbyes to loved ones with inkwells and scratch paper. There were no ambushes in the shadows or the rafters, no deadly surprises that dropped from nowhere and slaughtered them both.

They entered a sanctuary, and it was here that they discovered the first signs of life.

An old man kneeled before a shrine, his back directly to them, the edges of his kimono a puddle around his feet.

His head bent forward looked straight forward, straight away from where the duo had entered.

All was quiet for a long time before the man finally spoke. “…You are here for me, yes?”

“You’re the Elder?” Katarina asked, stepping forward while Riven rolled her shoulders.

 “I believe that is what they call me.” The old man’s voice never wavered, never betrayed the smallest bit of terror.

“Then by order of Noxus, I sentence you to death,” Katarina finished curtly, taking large, quick strides toward the stranger on the floor.

Riven frowned, eyes mouth agape without words.

“Halt!” She found her words just in time.

Katarina pivoted, maybe two strides away. “What?”

“ _This_ is our target?” Riven asked, confusion on her face and tripping her shoes when she took a step forward.

Katarina nodded like the answer was obvious, brow furrowed in annoyance.

Visibly appalled, Riven almost dropped her sword. “What are we doing Katarina?”

Katarina rolled her eyes, blew a stray hair from her face. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Riven trembled, aggressively stepping forward. “First, it’s a military outpost that ends up being a harmless fishing village. Then, it’s a series of Ionian counterattacks that winds up being more villages to raze to the ground. And now- now the threat to the stability of Noxus is actually an old man?”

She took another step forward, leaning, “Katarina, why are you lying to me?”

Katarina scowled, glared with irises that grew bolder and more toxic by the second.

The old man stood, and Katarina was about to put him down then and there for moving without permission.

When he looked at her, he didn’t give her a once-over. He didn’t cringe at the blood that dripped from her armor that must have been his countrymen. He didn’t raise a brow at the weapon too big to be rationally wielded in combat.

He only looked into her eyes, squinting silently. Riven fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze that was so piercing. It wasn’t kind, nor was it harsh or rude. It was just contemplative, like he was picking apart the pieces of her soul, then putting them back together in all the variations he could imagine and maybe even some he couldn’t.

He nodded. Then, he looked to Katarina, and his nose wiggled like he’d caught the brief scent of some foul odor.

His voice was wise and provocative with its deep, textured undertones, accented but very fluent in Noxian. “It is because she would not follow orders if she knew the truth, is it not?”

He looked to Riven and shook his head. “You are not like any Noxian I ever knew.”

Katarina growled like a cat, her gaze on the old man. An idea formed, and instead of closing what distance there was and ending him herself, she stepped back.

She lookd the elder with disdain, and with a single finger raised at the Elder, she said, “As your superior, I order you to end this miserable cretin’s life.”

There was smirk on his face then, very subtle, but his squinty eyes were crinkled. “Ah. And that is why they send you along, is it not?”

His gaze flicked to Riven. “To ensure that she follows the path set out for her? To ensure the mission is completed?”

Katarina snarled, looked to Riven furiously. “Riven, I demand that you kill him.”

When Riven didn’t budge, she added, “ _Now_.”

Riven looked at her, expression guarded. “… Is it true?’

“Of course,” the Elder said, but Riven wasn’t looking for an answer there.

She stepped forward, fingers constricting around the handle of her blade that carved the wodden floor.

“Katarina?” her voice was dangerously close to what resembled anger. “Is it true? Is that why you’ve lied to me?”

Katarina opened her mouth belligerently, but then she caught the look on Riven’s face. The genuine anger of betrayal.

And she cackled. And cackled and cackled because _surely_ this wasn’t new?

“Of _course_ it’s true, Riven! Did you really think you were invited into the Crimson Elite because you were good at waving _that_ thing around?”

Riven’s face was stone. But stone could crack when enough pressure was applied, and Katarina’s glare was powerful enough to sunder entire mountains in half.

She cackled some more, and Riven’s façade faltered.

“It was a leash! It was to keep you close, to make sure you wouldn’t do anything you would regret.”

Her tone devolved into something sinister, something disdainful, as did her gaze.

“You wept, you actually felt _sorrow_ , for those Ionian pigs at the harbor.”

Riven exploded.

“She was a child! She was no older than 10 and I cut her down like an animal because of you!”

“She was _Ionian_.”

“She was a child! She had a life to live and I took that chance away from her!

Katarina sighed, like a schoolteacher fed up with a disorderly student, and pinched the bridge of her nose with her index and thumb.

A tense moment passed.

She looked up, and Riven realized that if she were anyone else, she’d be dead now.

“Listen,” she said, exasperated, “there’s still a way to recover from this… _slip-up_. Kill the Elder, and let his blood fertilize the soil beneath us. Do that, and none of this ever happened.”

For the second time that night, Riven was forced to decide her future.

The decision should’ve been long and hard, weighing the options and the possible outcomes. If she killed the Elder, she would murder another person who didn’t deserve to die. If she refused, she doubted Katarina would let her walk way.

But the decision wasn’t long and hard. It was actually quite easy.

“No.”

“ _What was that?_ ”

A brief intake of cinnamon flavored air, then firmer and more like the expressionless veil she normally wore over her features.  

“No. I will not kill him. I’ve killed too many that couldn’t fight back already. I’m not going to do it again.”

Katarina shook her head. “You really are _weak_.”

The blades were unsheathed slowly, almost sensually from the scabbards at her back, twirling them twice in her fingers.

“But that doesn’t matter now. You have defied a direct order from your superior. You know what this means don’t you?”

The Elder stepped away.

Riven simply nodded, chasing away the fatigue and the pain as best she could.

With no warning, Katarina lunged with both blades extended, howling ferociously.

Riven dodged with a pirouette, bringing her sword up into a guard.

Katarina landed, rolled, then leapt into the air and slung two kunai, one at her throat and one at her stomach.

She dodged the throat and with great focus blocked the kunai flying to her stomach, but even if they had hit, the knife at her throat would’ve grazed her and the knife at her stomach would’ve missed anything vital. Katarina was an expert shot, the best even, so Riven wondered for half a second what that was about.

But she couldn’t linger long on the subject of the assassin’s lethality because when she looked up, Katarina was nowhere to be seen.

And then Riven winced, clutched at where the pain was, and when she looked down, she found she’d been run through completely with a blade. Blood pooled in the crevices of the intricate carvings on the flat, and she felt a disturbing amount of liquid spread about the wound beneath her armor.

Riven grunted, doubled over when the blade was ripped out from behind, and then a foot rammed into her back and all of her armor clattered against the wooden floor as she scrambled to her feet.

Katarina was upon her in an instant, her weapons a flash of silver and Riven couldn’t keep up with the speed of her attacks with her oversized weapon.

She swung, attempting to create distance between them, but Katarina ducked, and when she stood, a throwing knife lodged itself into Riven’s right calf.

Riven could’ve withstood that, had she not been exhausted and bruised and stabbed, but the fact was that Riven was very exhausted, heavily bruised and grievously stabbed.

So she dropped to her right knee, and as she descended, she fell right into Katarina’s roundhouse. The armored shin smacked her head, and the ceiling and the walls and the floor all swam and she staggered somewhere off to the left.

She twisted, and just as she faced the battle, cold steel punctured through her armor, through her stomach in a different place, and all the way through the armor on her back until the hilt thudded snugly against the armor.

Riven bent over again, blood spilling from her mouth and into Katarina’s eyes.

“Fuck!” Katarina shouted, and raised her hand to wipe the blood from her face.

Just as she’d wiped her eyes, she opened them to watch as the fist punched her squarely in the face, crushed her nose, and Katarina almost blacked out right there, struggling to stay on her feet.

Riven wished she had, but she didn’t, so she pushed her away firmly with her right leg.

Riven learned the hard way that Katarina’s grip was stronger than iron, and she hissed as the blade was roughly torn from her abdomen. More of her blood spilled onto the wooden floor, pattering loudly, and both women dropped like a rock.

But Katarina was quick to recover, and when Riven finally found her ground, she was being punished with furious strikes that frequently slipped past her guard and razed more gashes into Riven’s armor.

Then all at once the frontal assault ceased, but Riven didn’t pause; she knew what was happening. Determined not to be duped by the same trick twice, she whipped around, blindly swinging in a frantic, painful attempt to do anything at all to Katarina besides two black eyes.

She felt it connect, but with little resistance, so she followed up with two more horizontal slashes.

For a moment, she thought she’d won.

But then she noticed through bleary eyes exactly who it was that she’d hit.

The Elder whose name Riven didn’t and never would know stood there calmly, peacefully, and with three red streaks crossing his kimono and his neck. His eyes didn’t close, his mouth didn’t open. He just stared at her.

When he crumpled, Riven attempted to rush forward to catch him but she tripped and clanked to the floor because she was steadily losing coordination at the same rate as she was losing blood.

Katarina didn’t cackle.

She did, however, step forward toward Riven, but she caught herself before she did anything.

Were Riven lucid enough, she would’ve noticed how the assassin’s action wasn’t aggressive, how something resembling _regret_ \- and not for the Elder- flashed over green eyes before she returned to her usual expression.

Katarina leapt to the rafters and Riven watched her land with cat-like grace upon a single beam, glared as she prowled into the darkness.

She turned just before she disappeared.

“Trust me darling I’d _love_ to finish the job personally,” but even in her dying stupor, Riven could tell that wasn’t true, “but I’ve got a surprise for those Ionian cowards out front.”

She opened her mouth like she was going to say something but didn’t, tried to form a withering glare but couldn’t, and then she was gone in a puff of red smoke.

Riven crawled drunkenly to the man’s side, desperately checking for a pulse. She recoiled when he shot out to grab her wrist, when his eyes opened suddenly.

“I-I didn’t-…I’m so sorry…” was all Riven could think to say. She bowed her head in shame, the familiar tightness gripping the back of her throat. “I thought you were-“

“Hush, child,” he gurgled, red liquid oozing from the gaping opening in his jugular. “I do not… have much time.”

His wheezing was growing more labored with every word uttered, red mist spurting from his throat and chest, and Riven reached to her first aid kit to grab bandages to try to stop the bleeding.

“It is…too late… for… that…child…” he stopped her.

“I’m so sorry…” she said, voice breaking.

He gazed at her in that way only the dying can, but he didn’t look angry or particularly sad. Just at peace.

“You do not… seem… Noxian…”

Riven frowned, confused. Apart from her hair, she was often hailed as the epitome of a classic Noxian lass: tanned, tall, robust. She wasn’t very loud when she didn’t need to be, so that was the only real deviation, but other than that, she was the most Noxian woman there was.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she leaned in until his lips almost whispered against her ear.

“Find… Lee… Sin… I for-… forgive… you-… you…”

And with one last haggard breath, he stilled and died.

Riven raised her head and gazed upon his lifeless form. He was serene and without judgment in death and Riven assumed that was how he had been in life.

Riven ghosted her fingers over his eyelids and softly pulled them closed. She refused to cry, not now, not after her cheeks had been dry when she’d slaughtered a dozen other old, defenseless men.

She made a promise then, as all the men and the woman and the child she’d killed all passed before her watering vision. She took upon herself a vow she wouldn’t break as she fingered the silken cloth soaking in blood.

She would never kill again, as long as she lived, unless provoked. The power it took to end a life… was much more than she’d estimated.

And if this vow required her retirement from the Noxian military, then so be it.

She stood, fell, then hobbled to a wall. She limped forward unsteadily, one hand attempting to slip beneath her chest piece and clutch one of the two stab wounds, while the other steadied herself on the wall, blood smearing a streak on the papyrus.

When she’d caught sight of the battlefield, leaning against her massive sword, her heart plummeted into her stomach.

A sea of Ionian Blue was frothing down the walls of Coeur Valley, snarling and gnashing, a dark throng that moved as one entity. They overwhelmed the clearing in an instant, and her soldiers were swept off their feet by the ravenous wave.

It was a slaughter, a butcher’s paradise, blood running in rivers and bodies falling left and right.

She didn’t want to kill any more Ionians, but these were her soldiers on the line. They needed reinforcements if they were going to survive. She spat blood on the ground, then spat more when she hadn’t removed all of it, then coughed as more poured down her throat.

But still, she hobbled forward, sword in hand, and waded into the crowd. Because she wasn’t under the influence of any last-ditch optimism; she knew she was dying. Broken ribs and a punctured diaphragm didn’t exactly agree with each other.

If she were to die, she wished it to be quick, at the merciless edge of a blade rather than drown in her own blood, so that was where she was going.

An earsplitting foghorn louder than anything Riven had ever heard in her life resonated throughout the cool night air. It rattled her teeth, her bones, shook the ground she limped on. It rustled the trees and the cherry orchards and loosed thousands of pink petals that washed over the battled field in the wind.

The intensity of the sound was so great, her knees buckled, and she collapsed into a kneel.

A faint ringing persisted in the depths of her ears after the noise ended, and at first she thought she’d contracted tinnitus. But the buzzing vanished.

Riven looked up.

An enormous Zaunite gunship with all cannons pointed at them, and Riven’s pulse pounded, hairs raised, blood turned cold as ice when she realized what was going to happen.

Katarina’s surprise for the Ionian cowards. And the Ionians were all around them.

‘ _They wouldn’t… They couldn’t…_ ’

But she remembered the village, how they had mercilessly pummeled the shacks holding fisherman, and how if they could do it to innocent civilians, there was no reason that they couldn’t do it to soldiers.

Her question was answered when the monstrous cannons ignited and sent their terrifying contents shooting towards the dojo and its gardens.

The obsidian blanket shielding the nation from the sun flooded with a wicked, emerald light as noxious orbs rained down in a wall of glowing death. Like shooting stars, but green and headed straight toward Runeterra. Toward them.

Toward her.

Riven just sat there, on her knees, staring at the incoming assault as it dashed towards them. She’d never been on the receiving end, and she could now truly understand the inescapable feeling of hopelessness. How could you run from something that was everywhere at once? How could you run from the sky?

Her eyes, wide and glassy, were the canvases upon which the apocalyptic, viridescent fireworks show splattered their emerald greens and their poisons and their evils.

It would kill them all. Noxus and Ionia alike. There was even one headed right toward her.

It was almost… beautiful in finality.

The earth quaked as the asteroids struck the ground, but Riven just stayed there, staring at the endless rain of green. At the asteroid gunning straight for her.

But it didn’t hit her. Instead, it collided behind her, the explosion deafening.

And then a wave of the cursed ooze splashed all over her back, over her forearms.

Riven screamed. Not a tough exclamation. Not a war cry. She truly screamed.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, past what her lungs could manage, screamed so loud she was hurting her own ears. Her eyes were wide; the pain was so monstrous, so unbelievably _painful_ that she couldn’t close them because they were stiff.

Her whole body was stiff, muscles inflexible and locked into position, like rigor mortis amplified by ten as she screamed and screamed.

But she wasn’t dead. She was alive, and though she’d never even considered suicide, she desperately wanted to die with how much agony she was enduring. And she would’ve killed herself there if she could, she was trying to move her arms but they hurt more than anything in the world, she was trying to pull her sword along her neck and cease this unbearable torture but her muscles were stiffer than metal because it so much unbearable agony.

She had to get it off. She had to get it off, because if she couldn’t kill herself to ease the pain, she had to relieve it some other way. Because Riven was starting to go mad, to lose her grip on the edges of her sanity, and she need to get this poison off of her.

Her arms freed from their vice, and she was scrabbling at her back but the sludge had melted through the armor and she couldn’t reach it there and besides; her arms were covered in the stuff, and moving them was so much agony.

She ripped the armor off, to pieces, and then she was rolling frantically on the ground, back arched, trying to roll off the sludge like it was fire.

It worked.

It worked, but the friction of her crispy skin against the ground was too much, and she was sobbing in an instant.

Riven had cried two times in her life other than the child’s death, other than in her infancy. Once from a broken leg when she’d tried to prove herself to the other kids by jumping a famous ditch, and once after her first breakup during her early teens.

This was not a broken bone or a bad breakup.

This was _real_ pain, so this was _real_ crying.

Tears pumped down her face like a waterfall, but she couldn’t raise her hands to wipe her eyes because her arms hurt worse than fire, worse than a broken bone.

So she curled into a ball, pulled her arms around her head and her knees up to her chest and she cried.

She shrieked when a heavy body collapsed on top of her, rubbed against her crispy skin and her toes were curling and she was thrashing to push the body away. But that hurt more, so much more, and so she resigned herself to her fate, resigned herself to the dead body on top her and stared straight ahead.

Another green burst without warning on the ground just in front of her, and the sudden sound, the wave of toxic green that crashed over the body above that shielded her, brought her back to reality and Riven saw _everything_.

She saw the explosions of sparking, molten green as the comets assailed the ground, felt the vibrations as they rocked Runeterra with every concussive blast.

She saw men, Ionian men, _Noxian_ men, claw wildly at armor basked in sizzling emerald, saw their faces of agony and torment and terror, saw their screaming faces slowly liquefy and melt down their chins and their necks. She heard the piercing shrieks and the screams and the cries for mercy, cries for goddesses to save them.

She saw soldiers writhing in pain on the ground, writhing and writhing while their insides stewed and they coughed up red and boiling green and sick mixtures both.

She saw them still. She saw the life leave their eyes, their wide eyes, their closed eyes, their eyes rolled into their head. She saw them die.

And when another explosion blasted just behind her, shook the ground like an earthquake, Riven screamed, ducked her head into her body, rolled into a ball and wailed.

Because Riven _was_ afraid of dying.

The point of a blade would be quick, would be honorable and epic. A tale to tell the taverns for ages. She yearned to die at the point of a blade.

But like this? Where every inch of her skin would sear like an oven’s heat? Where she couldn’t breathe, where her lungs liquefied and spurted from her open, gasping mouth? Where she would die so slowly with so much pain? Where there wouldn’t even be a body to bury?

No, Riven was afraid of dying now.

She covered her ringing ears, closed her frightened, tearful eyes and sobbed. She prayed to a god she believed in, prayed to a god she didn’t believe in and clenched her teeth, thought to meadows and the taste of Noxian Scotch.

But the booming explosions all around her ripped her from her meadows, the singeing taste of death and rot pervading her mouth and gagging her taste buds.

“Make it stop!” she wailed, choking on fumes and tears and fear.

She thought to Noxus, hated how they could do this to her, hated Katarina and everything she’d made her do. She hated herself for unquestionably following orders, for not thinking for herself or for her soldiers. She hated the zeppelin above, she hated the blasts so close that she could feel their tremors and could feel her eardrums spike in pain, and she hated her skin for torturing her through all of this.

“ _Make it stop!_ ”

And it stopped.

The earth stilled completely. The zeppelin floated away to parts unknown, satisfied. The valley quieted until the only sound was a piercing scream.

A scream that didn’t end when the volley stopped, when the zeppelin was far away.

And when it did stop, when the shriek quieted, there was sobbing.

There was sobbing when the zeppelin disappeared over the far crest of the valley. There was sobbing all throughout the metamorphosis from pitch black and twinkling to peachy hues and rainbows of a pink and orange and purple that spanned all the way from the waking sun to the dozing moon.

Her throat was crackly and dry, but she didn’t notice. The burns still stung with a vengeance, and Riven could still hear the screams and see the faces.

She rolled the body off, sat up but winced and more tears of pain rolled down her cheeks. She wrapped her wrapped her arms around her calves, pushed her closed eyeballs into her knees until they hurt, and whimpered pathetically when the burns still tormented her.

Back and forth she rocked, like she was a babe again and in her mother’s arms. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

This was beyond necessary, beyond reason, she decided as she looked over the battlefield.

She was the sole survivor. The only one left out of a battalion of half a thousand.

The sound of life was extinguished. Not silent, but extinguished, like there had been oodles of life here before, but now all of it was dead and would never return. Not in a decade. Not in a millennia.

There was crackling and bubbling from puddles of green that hadn’t yet dried into crusts as glassy and brittle as obsidian. There was Riven’s unsteady, whiny breathing. But there was no life.

The bodies were husks, stretched on for as far as Riven could see. Gurgling husks of men and women, ribcages bowls for gory soup. Bones jutting from gaping holes. Bloated and necrotic. Charred and dead.

And the smell. The smell was of carrion and rot, choking, so pungent and greasy she could _feel_ the air.

This was treason. Firing on their own soldiers? That was textbook treason.

All of High Command, all traitors. She was going to be sick.

Instead, she pulled gauze and ointment from her pack with stiff limbs because every movement _burned_. She spread the ointment gingerly, hissed and winced and threatened to cry when nything other than air touched the injury, but then the pain subsided. Just a little bit.

But a little bit was better than none, and she could breath without consciously forcing herself to do so through the pain.

Then, she lifted the gauze, gripped her sagging collar between her teeth, and wrapped.

She sobbed once, shut her eyes so tight when the material contacted her flesh, but she kept at it until her arms were covered in white gauze. She wiped ointment onto her back, onto the burn that stretched from under the nape of her neck all the way down to just above her tailbone.

And she stood, breathe short and wheezing as the fabric shifted against her skin, and she looked.

She looked at the evidence of Noxus’ corruption, looked at all the people that had needlessly died. She looked over people, and she realized that she couldn’t go back.

Even if they accepted her, even if they could heal her wounds, they couldn’t heal the bridges they’d burned. They couldn’t bring her soldiers back from the dead. They couldn’t convince her that they wouldn’t do this again.

So she didn’t. She didn’t go back, and the ease with which she vowed never to return didn’t startle her.

“I… I’m never going back.”

But that wasn’t good enough. She’d killed uninvolved citizens, killed children…

No, it had to be stronger than that. There had to be sacrifice.

“I renounce my Noxian citizenship… My honor and my dignity.” She stood taller, though it hurt.

“I won’t kill for them again. I won’t… I won’t let them kill like this again.”

It was foolish she knew; an injured Commander versus an entire nation that thrived on violence?

But she had to have hope. Because now, amidst the bodies and the ashes and the puddles of death, she saw no hope to be taken. So she made her own.

She glanced down, looked to her blade and then there was a light in her eyes. Like a blazing fire, like the sinister glow of the chemicals illuminating the carnage.

The sword was Noxus. Brutish and brimming with power. Completely overkill.

She roared from her dry throat and she brought her foot up, and then down with her indomitable strength and stomped the flat near the hilt.

The blade shattered, emerald dissipating in a flash of green and the runes dimmed until they died.

Riven faltered, grunted, and she almost toppled over from the spike of pain in her knee. She remembered her other injuries, her stab wounds through her gut and the various, plentiful other cuts and gashes. She regained her composure, and looked back to the sword.

She would keep it. To remind her what she’d done. What Noxus had done. The burns did that on their own, but their pain would fade over time. The sword would be eternal, its wicked edge painful.

She retrieved it, wincing, and then she sifted through her armor, because that too would remind her of her deeds.

The torso was devastated, warped and still hot to the touch, as were the shin guards, the boots and the leg armor. The fingers of the left glove were almost fused together, but the right was intact and fully functional, so she slipped that on. Only her left pauldron could even be considered intact, and so she strapped that on too.

Riven needed to leave Ionia. She would find the first barge she could, sneak aboard, and she would run as far and as fast as she could.

She groaned, stepped forward cautiously, and hissed through clenched teeth. And then she was walking, dragging herself along on two feet, irregular breathing timed with the shifting of her arms and her back.

With heavy limbs and a heavier heart, Riven hobbled away from the rising sun, away from the village and the dojo. Away from responsibility, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.

Then, when the ragged mop of white had disappeared through the trees, all there was in Coeur Valley was death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and i'll see you next time!


	5. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting a massive amount of support, and I just want to say thank you all! Anyways, two years have passed and here we are now. Enjoy!

**10 Years Ago**

Sandals worn by tireless travel crunched sand as they trekked the distance from the harbor to the village.

Riven’s weary head disguised its features behind a rawhide cloak as ragged as she felt after a week of sea shanties, angled faintly downward so that no one would notice her Noxian heritage. She’d received withering glares even in places where Noxus’ bloody influence hadn’t yet reached, so in a land currently under siege, disguising her skin tone was imperative to her success.

However, when she almost stumbled over an empty tangle of rusted wire and piping, she recognized the need to keep her head up lest she trip over another lobster cage.

The fishing village was picturesque, like a postcard from a tourist trap.

The sand beneath Riven’s soles was golden and pleasantly warm with the sun’s late morning rays, the sky a cheerful blue and completely cloudless. Behind her, a flock of drab, white sails bobbed in an ocean clear and tropical, corralled to a harbor of squeaky boards jutting from the shoreline.

A dense jungle bordered the far side of town, and even though the impenetrable wall of leafy green spanned across a lagoon of huts, the trees still soared high enough to cast shadows over all of the shantytown, the canopy filtering all but the smallest pinpricks of sunlight. Riven didn’t have to strain her ears to listen to the crooning and squawking of exotic birds, to see them flit between the slim trunks and disappear into the depths.

She sighed when she ducked from the direct heat of the sun and slipped the cool shadows.

The village was very much alive even though the times were dire. Riven could see all sorts of sights a mere postcard could never replicate.

The huts were squashed close together, walls of bamboo and bark strings poorly containing the clunk of pots and pans and the loud chatter between close-knit families and neighbors. Yet, Riven didn’t experience claustrophobia as she ambled through the alleys of dirt hard-packed by extensive foot traffic. It was more… familial. Like neighbors were as much family as were sons and daughters.

Riven’s cloaked head peeked cautiously around corners as she aimlessly wandered, aware that laughing children could zoom down narrow alleys at any moment, their bubbly giggling soothing the atmosphere. She dodged around piles of empty cages and fishing poles, ducked under wonderfully varied dream catchers that danced elegantly in the wind, and shuffled around locals in straw hats and colored ponchos.

Eventually, the alleys converged, and Riven was dumped into a peaceful sort of chaos.

The square wasn’t too busy, a few villagers milling here and there, carting pales of sloshing water from poles suspended by their shoulders. But what few ambled about drifted with purpose, and Riven found herself drawn into the whirlpool of people.

There were wind chimes all about the square, all sorts of different sizes tinkling and whistling all pitches of different tunes and whispers, soothing Riven’s ears as she floated by. There were even more dream catchers, eye-catching hues dangling from canopies of leaves and straw where crowds chanted around the tables where pebbles and oblong marbles were the pieces of some elaborate game that Riven couldn’t decipher.

There were masks that glared at Riven, that smiled and snickered and grinned deviously, that were all carved from a dark brown wood, that hung from pegs on doors and walls and pillars of stones stacked on stones. They were places of worship, Riven realized when she glanced the belt of prayer mats and the people with hands and eyes and souls reaching for the heavens.

But what really snagged her attention and pulled her from her endless dawdling around the square was the smell. Not of filthy villagers or poverty, but of meat.

Of the meat that seared atop a grill over a roaring fire. There were several of such fires interspersed around the square. Pillars of cottony smoke swayed with the breeze, as did the scent from the sizzling slabs of fish.

Grease bubbling, tender meat sputtering and spattering passersby with dots of hot fat, smelling smoky and delicious…

Riven’s mouth watered, lips parting in anticipation, as she watched the rows of fish cook from a short distance away.

There were no merchants, no shop owners because there were no shops. Riven had researched Ionia this time around, intent on not committing the same mistakes. Ionia in general loved peace and selflessness, and the villages that dotted the coastline perpetuated this idea.

Thus, very few Ionian villages, including this one, ever demanded payment for services. It was just part of the Ionian lifestyle; generosity was rewarded with more generosity, and that system lead to these take-what-you-want kiosks. Sometimes they were bracelets of beads and shells, and other times they were grills full of fresh fish.

Riven stepped forward eagerly.

Then stopped herself because she had no right to take so charitable an offering when she had already taken so much.

She sighed. This was her price to pay; she’d likely hunt something later when she’d escaped the village. Her stomach still grumbled, though, and she closed her eyes, winced, and pivoted to head out.

She almost didn’t see the man spectating just behind her, but she halted just before they collided.

He hadn’t flinched, the smile he wore beneath a straw hat never faltering.

“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, face wrinkled and back hunched over by time, the leathery skin around his eyes crinkled by a lifetime of happiness.

The words were as gruff and sincere as the man looked, peering out from under the brim with almond-shaped eyes, and though Riven wore a stoic mask, she felt flattered that he hadn’t approached her with hostility.

“Greetings.” Riven’s Ionian was so fluent, one might mistake her for that of a native, had they not glanced her tanned complexion. “Don’t worry, I mean no harm. I don’t plan on staying long.”

His brow furrowed, but his smile held constant. “Why the rush, young one? Stay! Eat! Drink!”

He nodded to the fish behind her. “There is plenty to go around.”

Riven’s eyes darted around wearily. “I don’t that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Riven frowned. “Can’t you tell? I’m…”

“Not from around here?” he asked quizzically.

She hesitated. Was his vision blurred by his age? Or did he truly not care?

“Noxian.”

He chuckled sardonically and looked around. “Ah. You see, the war has yet to directly affect us, so prejudice has yet to set in.”

She nodded wordlessly.

“Besides,” he said as he tottered past her, a bucket of vegetables and herbs clutched in his hand, “If you were here to raid and pillage, I would be dead wouldn’t I? And if my old eyes don’t fail me, I appear to be very much alive.”

Riven stood there and watched as he walked away, halted, and looked expectantly over his shoulder.

“I don’t suppose your feet can still carry you, can they? I swear I saw you walk but a moment ago.”

Riven’s brow quirked. “You mean…?”

He motioned toward himself with vigor that a man of his age didn’t usually possess. “Come! Come, come!”

Riven took half a step forward, but stopped uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes, “What I would give to be young and dumb again,” and motioned again, this time with more force.

Riven nodded appreciatively, then took long strides until she was casually strolling along.

The old man’s smile widened blissfully. “Ah, the youngling will be most excited to have a traveler roosting with. It’s been so long since we’ve had a guest from the Continent.”

Riven nodded wordlessly as they navigated through the alleyways. The wind was pleasant against her skin, ruffling her skirt and gently plastering her cloak to her shoulder. She must’ve been a sight to see, with her forearms wrapped in thick bandages and the pommel of her sword jutting from her hip. She mindlessly scratched at the gauze as they wandered with purpose beneath the cracks of clear sky between the overlapping straw rooves, shifting her shoulders.

They burns still felt like she’d just received them last week even though they’d scarred over long ago, but an overdose of ointment smeared on the gauze eased the pain until it was mostly ignorable. But only mostly, and as she itched, the itch tingled more intensely, and she forced her arms to her side before she would scratch them bloody again.

“Are you wounded?” he asked without so much as passing glance over to her.

“… In a way.”

“No, no, no,” he shook his head calmly. “A simple question: are you wounded? Yes or no will suffice.”

“… Yes.”

He nodded. “Then we shall see to it that you’re treated before you depart.”

Riven had yet to meet anyone, a medical specialist or otherwise, who’d been able to assuage the burning, but the offer still deserved a, “Thank you.”

They were out of the thicket of huts now, hiking an easy slope that curved around and jabbed straight into the ocean in a small peninsula that cut off into cliff sides. The homes here were sparse but just as alive as the city, with snorting pigs gallivanting with muddy children through pens and clucking chickens strutting freely.

“Home at last.”

The man’s house was simple in construction, long and narrow with walls of more bamboo and a thatched ceiling from which a single column of smoke billowed. The view was gorgeous at the end of the peninsula, the sleepy blanket of ocean blue that spilled in all directions dotted by canoes and the sails of rafts. The comforting crash of the waves against the cliff face far below drifted up and over and lent Riven a sense of peace as they followed the trail out toward the house.

The first thing Riven noticed as they stepped up the short path to the door was the colors and the music.

They were dreamcatchers. More dream catchers. Riven ogled their intricate nets where nightmares were snared, their wispy feathers of aquamarine blue and cardinal red and sunshine yellow and brilliant orange. They were everywhere, hanging from the poles that lined both sides of the path, fringing all around the awning that extended from the door, swaying from the rooves.

And beside them, Riven saw the wind chimes of all proportions, of wood and occasionally polished metal. They clinked and jingled and sang into the air, and Riven’s mind was tranquil, her injuries subsiding as the tune washed over her flesh and soaked into the scars.

The man flicked a chime when they’d arrived at the door, lingering for a moment to listen to its melody, and then he disappeared inside.

Riven entered, and an appetizing odor met her at the door.

Riven could see easy though the hut’s roof allowed little light to pass. She could see the dreamcatchers and the wind chimes that dangled above, could see the masterful embroidery upon patterned fabric that sealed the gap in the walls, could see all the little totems that lounged in the wax pools of melting candles.

The man was already deep in the room, arms cocooned around a giggly little girl that laughed mirthfully when his smile broadened infinitely.

A smile, small but still a smile, sprouted on Riven’s lips before she could control her features.

The man looked back to her, and suddenly there was a woman as short as he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She’d aged well, her hair dark and grin as warm as the soup that stewed over the stove behind them.

The old man was going to say something, but the child wriggled out of his arms and trotted over to her.

Riven angled her head downward, and the instant eye contact was established, the curious girl stood a little taller.

“Who are you? Are you a traveler?” the little girl asked.

“Kumiko!” The woman swooped in, plucking her from the floor and bouncing her on her hip while she smiled apologetically at Riven. “Apologies! She’s such a curious child, aren’t you?”

Another tug of the lips, but Riven didn’t resist this one. “No worries, ma’am.”

“She does have a point,” the old man said, kind eyes fixed upon his guest. “You have yet to tell us your name.”

Riven was apprehensive at first, but she realized that an isolated villager from the northwestern coast of Ionia would never have heard of her.

Still, there was a noticeable pause. “… Riven. My name is Riven.”

“Pleased to meet you, Riven!” He stepped forward, and Riven bowed as was custom. “I am Haruto, and this is my wife, Izumi.”

“Hello!” Izumi said cheerfully, frowning when the little girl managed to escape the clutches of her parents once again and walk over to Riven.

“And this,” Haruto said, pride in his eyes and his words, “is our Kumiko.”

Kumiko’s amber hair was plaited with flowers, her face delicate but trying not to seem so. Riven smiled at her, but Kumiko retained that face of pure curiosity.

Riven dropped to one knee and pulled the hood from her head. “Lovely name.” Then she looked down and saw the pendant pinned to her shirt.

An insignia carved into a wooden disc three inches in diameter.

Riven’s throat dried, her smile lost its stability, and her heart quickened and all she could see was the pendant.

Izumi didn’t notice the sick pallor of her skin, and Kumiko’s expression remained the same.

But a hand squeezed her shoulder, and when she looked up to Haruto, she’d lost her mask of neutrality. Her eyes were panicked, her breath quick and harsh, and she could hear the screams again.

She could hear the screams and she could see the bodies. She could see the sludge that glowed with a toxic malice and the faces of everyone who’d died that day. She could feel the acid that burned at her skin and seared her flesh, she could feel it like it was on her now and she was almost rolling across the floor again to rub the sludge from her body.

She could see a lonely grave facing the restless sea. She could hear the girl ask her question over and over and over and over and over and her shoulder was squeezed again.

“Riven.” And she looked back up again, her thousand yard stare boring straight through Haruto and he knew.

He knew. He knew she’d done something horrible. He didn’t know what exactly she’d done, but he knew it was unimaginable and horrible.

But all that he had to give her was solace and sympathy in his gaze toward her. She drew a breath, reigned in her pulse and her memories and she looked back at the child. At Kumiko, who hadn’t recognized what the exchange between this stranger and her father was.

“Where did…” her voice was choked, but she pushed past it. She reached out tentatively, pinching the pendant between her thumb and index. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a special charm. It says-.”

“Friendship,” Riven said hollowly.

The girl nodded silently. “It was a gift.”

“We traveled to one of the southern villages during the Festival of Giving,” Izumi said.

“Ah, I remember,” Haruto said. “You know the Festival of Giving?”

“Vaguely,” Riven said. “You bring gifts to other villages, right? And then you light lanterns that float into the sky?”

“The lanterns,” and Haruto smiled at the memory. “The lanterns were so bright and numerous I could not discern the lanterns from the stars. Do you remember Izumi?”

“I remember well.” Izumi looked to Kumiko and smiled like only a parent can smile at their young ones. “I remember the grove. I remember how Kumiko played and danced in the cherry blossoms.”

Haruto nodded nostalgically, and linked hands with Izumi as she rested her head fondly upon his shoulder. “All the other children played and danced together, but not our Kumiko.”

“She was too bold for the other children,” Izumi said.

“She is _still_ too bold for the other children,” and Haruto and Izumi laughed silently while their daughter continued to analyze Riven with big eyes.

“There was one child who could handle Kumiko… though I forget her name.” Haruto pondered while he squinted his eyes in thought.

“Hana!” Kumiko exclaimed, and her parents nodded approvingly.

“Hana…” Riven said.

“Hana.” Kumiko said.

“We almost had to pry them from each other when we were to depart,” Haruto said, and Izumi chuckled.

“Hana told me not worry, because we made these,” and Kumiko held up her pendant. “She said friendship lasts forever.”

Riven didn’t say anything, just looked from the etching on the pendant and mentally compared it to the pendant in her satchel. When she stared at Kumiko again, at her flaxen hair and her wide eyes, she realized that Kumiko looked nothing like her parents.

They said nothing for a while, the musical chimes trickling through the walls and the shuttered windows, the blankets rolling in the light breeze.

It was Haruto that broke the vigil.

“You must be starving, Riven! How is lunch, Izumi?”

The kettle whistled, and the boiling soup thudded against the pot audibly.

“I believe lunch is finished.”

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven lent her considerable strength to the reconstruction of a jungle-side hut for the rest of that afternoon. Wild boars were an issue this time of year, and a scuffle with a pack of them had decimated a friend of Haruto’s house.

Riven was by far the strongest there, hauling the heaviest materials with ease.

Haruto helped too, and she wondered if it was the weather and the harsh conditions rather than time that had crinkled his face as he carted materials to and from the site.

They walked side by side in the shade of the trees, sweat clinging to their brows and hearts pumping thudding against ribcages. Riven wasn’t sure if the topic was appropriate, but she asked anyways.

“So, Haruto.”

“Yes?” he asked as he walked to the other side of a massive log, crouching at one end and waiting expectantly for Riven to grab the other so they could heave it together.

Instead, Riven walked to the center, kneeled, wrapped one arm around the log, and stood all on her own.

Haruto looked knowingly at her from where he still crouched.

“What?”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me look bad.”

She grinned. “You do that on your own.”

He grinned as well, chuckled as he stood and dusted off his loose trousers. He opted for a bundle of sticks instead, and they walked side-by-side to were carpenters shaped the material.

“I mean this with the most respect, but you’re very old to be Kumiko’s parents.”

“That might be because we’re not her parents,” and they loudly deposited their freight.

Riven quirked a brow, and Haruto laughed as they ambled back to the pile.

“She was an orphan when we found her.”

“Orphaned by the war?”

They knelt to pick up two very staggered weights of material, and then they were weaving through more volunteers.

“No, no, long before the war. We found her when she was just a babe, abandoned in the forest.”

“Abandoned by whom?”

“We don’t know. Otherwise, we would’ve returned her. But,” as they deposited their pile, Haruto turned and smiled at her, “I’m very glad that we didn’t.”

They all worked until the sun was low in the sky, and just as the fiery base began to merge with the watery horizon, the last rope was knotted, and the celebrations began. They didn’t stay long, just long enough to watch the dancers with their pan flutes prancing about a fire. They bowed, spread their rice along the ground to ward off evil spirits and attract good luck, and then they were trekking back up the slope to Haruto’s house on a hill.

Haruto swished a chime that hung from a pole. “Kumiko loves these things.”

“I can tell,” Riven said as the flower tails tickled her fingers.

“Nets to catch the bad dreams and chimes to draw the good ones.” She could hear the smile in his voice as they plodded up to the door. “‘But what if the nets catch the good dreams?’ I asked one day.”

“What was her response?”

He chuckled, and that spiraled into a laugh and Riven couldn’t help but smile. It was so easy around someone so mellow and amiable.

“Oh, you should’ve been there! We argued over the physical properties of good dreams versus bad dreams all night, and little Kumiko just wouldn’t quit.”

“What did you decide on?”

Haruto placed a palm at the door, and his other lightly fondled the rainbows that dripped from the nets. “What does this look like?”

Riven leaned in, and studied the design of the threaded spider web. “Like a flower.”

“Exactly. The good dreams can pass through, but the bad dreams are caught.”

“Seems simple to me; and you say you spent an entire night arguing this?”

Haruto opened the door, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. “What about the ones that don’t look like flowers? What about the colors of their tails? What about the size of good dreams versus bad dreams?”

“Seems like a fascinating subject.”

“It is, I assure you.”

They were welcomed in with loud greetings, scrumptious smells, and a dinner that well compensated for the grueling work of the afternoon. Green onions, tofu, and thick udon noodles bathed in a broth of a handful of spices Riven had never heard of before, and she thanked Izumi for such a filling meal.

All the while, Kumiko stared quietly at her from the opposite end of the table.

The instant her chopsticks clinked against the bowl, Kumiko was upon her with all sorts of questions about her travels. About what she’d seen, who she’d seen, what she’d done, even _who_ she’d done-.

“Kumiko! That is not appropriate for dinner! Or anywhere, for that matter!” Izumi scolded, but Kumiko didn’t pout.

Haruto’s laughter must’ve been heard from miles.

For her part, Riven answered most of her questions, nodding here and there and stealing glances to the girl’s parents who were just as eager to pick up a new story or two.

And then the time to leave had arrived.

“Thank you,” Riven said with sincerity. “Thank you all for everything. If you ever need anything, send out a message. Word travels fast around here, and I can almost guarantee that I can make it back within a month.”

“We have a free cot if you wish to spend the night here,” Haruto said, but Riven politely declined. She’d taken enough from them already, and they’d given her the courage she needed to complete her quest.

“May our paths cross again.” Riven bowed, collected her cloak, and then she was out the door with a full belly and a renewed conscience.

The night accepted her graciously, the churning sea soft and placid. The huts and homes perched on the edges of cliffs glowed of candlelight, their occupants quiet and their livestock dozing in their pens. Wind chimes conducted their nightly orchestra, and Riven breathed in deeply the blanket of grass beneath her feet.

She looked up at the night sky.

Riven had come to appreciate the stars. When the world was on fire and everything was burning to the ground, the stars were always there the next night. Sure, they moved with the seasons, but their disappearance was never permanent; they’d always show up next summer.

Sometimes, on nights like these, she envied their security. Their ethereal beauty always revealed themselves no matter the circumstances, their twinkling light a constant in a universe of variables. Nothing could touch them from here, and their strength and their wisdom was far beyond anything Riven ever hoped to attain in this life or the next.

Footsteps beside her.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Riven didn’t answer, but Haruto continued anyway.

“It helps ground me when I’m troubled. I realize how small and insignificant I am in this vast universe. By juxtaposition, my problems always seems so unimportant.”

A long respectful silence passed.

“I know you are troubled Riven.”

Riven remained as silent as the birds nesting in their trees.

“I can see how you sag beneath the weight of your burdens. I can see the regret in your eyes when you look at Kumiko.”

Riven blew air from her nose. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Yes.”

Riven looked down and over at him, but he was stargazing as well, expression neutral. Her eyes returned to the heavens and she breathed.

“Riven?”

She averted her gaze downward, and this time his eyes were on her, his eyes as insightful as his words were kind.

“I don’t know what those burdens are, but know that no matter what it is, no matter how evil an act it was, you possess the strength to move on.”

She huffed again, bitter eyes glaring at him. “Is that so?”

“If you can feel this much guilt, you have the capacity for at least that much good. That’s a lot of good, if you play your cards right.”

Riven was silent.

So Haruto hugged her. It wasn’t low effort either; it was a proper bear hug, his arms enveloping her waist and pulling her in close.

“I forgive you, Riven,” he whispered.

Silence for a moment.

Then the tanned arms clamped tight around him, almost crushing him with her extraordinary power. He rubbed at her back, and soon her head was in his shoulder. Riven choked on the fabric at his shoulder, gripping the collar of his shirt between clenched teeth and she squeezed.

His shoulder dampened, and Riven sobbed once, then choked again.

Then twice. Then a third time.

“I killed her,” she blubbered, biting the fabric harder as the urge to cry overwhelmed her. Locking away her feelings for two years wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“Killed who, Riven?”

“Hana,” and she sobbed again, fingers digging into his back.

He didn’t pull away like she thought he would; instead he murmured, “There, there,” and coddled her like she were his own child. “There, there.”

She wet his shirt for a little longer, until she’d received just enough that she was confident that she wouldn’t break down again. She slowly extracted herself from his shoulder, inhaling and exhaling in tune with an even beat.

Riven sniffled loudly, wiping snot from her nose with her forearm, wiping tears from her eyes with her thumbs.

“You’re here for Lee Sin, aren’t you?” Haruto asked.

“Yeah.” Riven sniffled, nodding. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“You would be surprised how many wanderers explore this area for Enlightenment.”

He pointed inland, over a patch of huts and at an archway blood red and illuminated by twin braziers. “Over that row of houses lies the start of the path to the Hirana Monastery. You will find Lee Sin there. The trail is well tread and safe, and the monastery welcomes visitors every day and every night.”

Riven nodded. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “It was my pleasure, Riven. Good luck on the path, though I doubt you’ll require its services.” And then he was headed back inside.

“Wait!” Riven said, coming to a decision.

She stepped forth until she was just before him, and she rifled through her satchel. Her fingers grazed the thing several times before she finally pulled it free.

“Please, take this.” In Riven’s outstretched palm was Hana’s pendant, the carved face washed with moonlight.

Haruto accepted the token, nodding as he brought the pendant in front of his eyes. Riven wondered if he was examining the insignia and its artistry, or maybe he was inspecting the dried bloodstain.

He looked at Riven with a sad smile. “Now I must thank you.” He held the pendant aloft. “I will give this to Kumiko when she is older. When she will understand.”

He bowed gracefully, and Riven returned the gesture.

Then, Haruto turned and disappeared into his home. Riven watched him go, pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Goodbye, Haruto.”

Riven pivoted, eyed the path, and then she was taking her first steps toward absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and I'll see you all next chapter.


	6. A Brother's Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support this is getting blows my mind. Thank you to each and every one of you who's commented so far! Please enjoy!

**10 Years Ago**

Blue eyes as cold as the night breeze and as anxious as the moon was chalky and pale watched the trees rustle and quake, watched the delicate leaves shudder and spasm.

Ears sensitive to sound out of a necessity to detect quiet assassins behind them listened to the leaves whistle and whine as the wind tore from them their only earthly possessions: maples seeds. White, veiny wings around a cluster of pods.

A nose too familiar with the sharp tang of blood whiffed the fragrance of the freshly washed blanket of earth and grass, whiffed the metallic scent of clear mineral water flowing through the streams that fractured the glade.

The eyes closed, the ears tuning in until only his thoughts buzzed, and the nose numbed, and they all angled skyward. Like the starlight would wash over his rugged features and melt away the pain and the confusion and the new scar across his nose and his cheek. Like the heavens would bathe him in forgiveness for a crime he didn’t commit.

But they didn’t. They hadn’t, and they wouldn’t. Only the wind caressed his pleading face now, only the breeze hadn’t shunned him and hunted him.

A tickle against his nose, and the eyes scrunched, fluttered open.

A shower of maple leaves. The wind’s angels, he’d called them for a while now. They enveloped him, danced along his skin and buffered against his jet-black hair. They soothed him, knitting into the swaying stalks of grass at his feet.

A gift. To soothe him, like a pat on the back.

The phantom of a smile, like ruins of an ancient metropolis; there was enough there to hint at what it once was, but it would never be again. “Thanks, Old Friend.”

The breeze whispered. ‘ _You’re welcome._ ’

And then the breeze was ice cold and blustering. Towards a man stalking the clearing.

The phantom on his face vanished, the anxiety in his eyes multiplying. He took in a breath, and though the wind was there to take, he faltered and choked on it. The maple seeds still swirled.

His hand went to the hilt, not quick but not lazy. Firm and filled with faux resolve, just like the stroke as he unsheathed his weapon. There was a sound unique to his sword and his sword only as it unsheathed. Frigid steel against the metal ring of the scabbard, as was with all blades, but this blade kept singing. Kept ringing for far too long after, and only he knew that the sound was the wind cutting across its razor’s edge, sharpening.

Preparing to kill. But Yasuo didn’t want that. He didn’t want that at all.

So to distract himself, he studied the shower of winged seeds and ignored the footsteps approaching, focused on a single cluster and not on the blue cowl around the man’s neck that bobbed with every stride towards him.

He raised his blade before him with a single hand, a single dexterous arm, and he waited. He waited until a lone cluster spun and whirled and pirouetted right onto the tip of his blade that didn’t waver, and he studied the seed.

The seeds were closely packed in their pod, no secrets kept from either as they floated freely through the air. Friends for life.

Like he and his brother, but his brother lied. They weren’t friends for life; they were friends until his hot head and his too-eager sword buried bodies and himself up to the brim. So the usual, then. Nothing different.

Still, it stung when his brother hadn’t believed him. It stung worse than the flecks of the vile, green lava that razed the dojo.

He hadn’t killed that Elder. Hadn’t sliced and diced him like he were a piece of meat on a rack being sectioned into pieces at a butcher’s shop. He’d told them so, and yet whatever evidence his clan withheld from him had clogged their ears like wax to his pleas for a hearing, and they’d sentenced him to death.

That hadn’t surprised him. He was prepared to die for his sins and pay penitence to the traditions of old Kashuld.

What surprised him was that his brother hadn’t stood by him. Sure, the man had to play the role of older brother and scold, but he always fought by him. His wit and his weapon could always be counted on, but then…

Then the only weapon his brother had given him was his own, bared and willing to strike. His brother, the man who’d instilled reason and discipline, honor and ethic and countless other virtues, did not believe him.

He was not prepared for that.

His clan’s shame, he could bear, but his brother’s? His brother’s he could not.

And so he’d fought, tooth and nail and blood and blade through his friends and his family, watched his comrades fall, all because he wasn’t strong enough to accept his brother’s shame. All because he’d rather kill his own than die a die a disgrace in Yone’s eye.

He’d ran, and ran and ran and ran because he knew what was coming. He knew that after the first sent after him, a man of strength, and the second, a woman of speed, they would not fail a third time.

Because the first and second had fallen, and now the third was upon him. He could hear the absence of sound behind him, could recognize that the footsteps had arrived.

“Yasuo.”

His hand quivered, and the leaflet fell. He rested his arm, bowed his head.

“Yone.”

Yasuo pivoted. Not quick, but not lazy.

His brother looked so much older than he had two years ago. There were dark bags beneath his fearful eyes. Eyes blue and cold and anxious. Yasuo swallowed.

Silence. The cicadas chirped and the wind rustled, but everything was so silent.

Yasuo spoke first. Strained, and scared, because he realized what would happen and what he’d have to do. “You’re here to…?”

Yone nodded. Strained and scared, because he realized what would happen. But more than anything, exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, his arms heavy, and his mind droning with too many unpleasant thoughts.

“Yes.”

Yasuo breathed, looked to the sky, looked to the ground. Looked to Yone. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then let’s not.” Too desperate for his taste, but if that was what got the job done, then he’d be the most desperate man in Ionia.

Yone shook his head. “You know we can’t do that. Just walk away and never turn back.”

“But we can.” Yasuo stepped forward with one foot. “We can go. Right now. We can run away and put this all behind us. Maybe Demacia, or the Plague Jungles of Kumungu…”

Yone’s lip snarled, his eyes alight and bitter. “Have you forgotten that it’s not just you and me? Have you forgotten about mother and father?” Yone stepped forward in much the same fashion. “You are my family, my brother-!”

Yone choked, heaved like he’d just spent hours weeping and maybe he had? And now Yasuo felt like weeping.

“-You are my brother. But you are also a killer, and as long as you still breathe, you bring shame upon us all. If we left, we would leave mother and father for the village to pick apart.”

“So, no. We can’t just ‘run away’.”

And Yone was silent, and Yasuo was too. Eye contact hurt, so they stared at the whistling trees, at the cascade of maple seeds, the moon, anything but each other. Yasuo stared at the cowl around Yone’s neck.

It was a gift from him to his brother long ago. So long, Yasuo couldn’t remember. He could only remember how his brother had worn the garment every day since. Even through all this, even when Yone’s brother was a traitor.

“Do you really think that?”

Yone looked up at Yasuo’s questions with a bewildered frown.

“Think what?”

“That I killed him?”

Yone snorted, flashed a sardonic smirk as he shook his head, looked at the ground. Looked far, far away to the left, to the peaks of Targon, to the ocean blue hundreds of miles away, and passed that to the seas uncharted. He looked there for an eternity, stewing and pondering and Yasuo’s lungs were seized the whole duration.

He looked back, eyes soft and glimmering with frustration. Looked at Yasuo.

“Of course not. You’re not a killer.” He shook his head as Yasuo breathed once more, shook his head as he clenched his jaw hard. “Why don’t they know you’re not a killer?”

He was far from redeemed, but the vice around his heart loosened just that much.

“And why, after so much service to the clan, would you betray us?” Yone shook his head, and Yasuo worried his brother’s brain might shake loose and rattle around. “No. No, you were never a traitor. It makes no sense at all to me or anyone else.”

Yasuo frowned. “Then why do you still pursue me if you’re so sure I’m guiltless of the crimes accused?”

His brother ground his teeth, looked him straight in the eye. “Do you know how he died?”

“Cut nearly to pieces,” Yasuo said.

“Three quick strikes. The candles extinguished and the paintings thrown about like a gale had struck the temple. Sound familiar?”

Yasuo frowned. “But-, but I’ve seen the body! That was _not_ -!”

“Not you’re handiwork, I know. I trained you remember?” Yone said, tired gaze wandering the grass and the fluttering maple seeds. “The cuts were too sloppy and wide, and the angle was all wrong. Whoever struck him was taller. But they wouldn’t listen, and- and…”

His lip quivered and Yasuo panicked; he’d _never_ witnessed his brother cry before.

“And neither would I. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Yasuo.” A crystal crawled down his brother’s shivering cheek and plinked against the earth “I’m so sorry.”

Yasuo stepped forward again and reached out, but Yone stepped away, raised a hand and attempted to look angry. But he couldn’t, not with tears in his eyes and a tightness in his throat.

“Don’t!” And when Yasuo halted, his brother’s tone lost it’s edge. “Don’t.”

“Yone-.”

“You know what must happen now. They won’t let me return until I find you and bring you to justice.”

Yasuo advanced, clearly desperate but that wasn’t working anymore. “Yone, please!”

“No, Yasuo.” A blade was pulled from a sheath, metal scouring against metal, and there was a new silence that fell upon the clearing.

“No,” Yasuo said, shaking his head and his pursed lips and his eyes squeezed shut like a child refusing his parent’s order. “No, I won’t.”

“Yasuo.”

“No.”

“This is unavoidable, Yasuo. You know that.”

Yasuo gestured to the west. “No. We can still run.”

And again, Yone shook his head. “They will follow us into the Void if they have to.”

His teeth ground, his eyelids squeezed tears from his eyes, because it hurt. It hurt because it was true, and he knew it. The Clan would find them wherever they fled to; they were trackers, and they were the best. Legend has it they could find footprints on the water’s glassy surface, could sniff a deer’s scent from another continent.

“Help me find the true killer.” Yasuo said. “Come with me. We’ll find them and bring them back.”

Pain. “But you still failed your duties. Even if we can prove your innocence, you still die. And I can’t be part of the effort that kills you.” He sniffed. “It’s better this way. Trust me. Please.”

Yasuo trusted him with his life, even as his brother brought his sword into two hands, as his stance widened and his posture braced. Even when his brother prepared to fight him for the final bout.

Yasuo could simply refuse to fight. Stand there like a dummy and let his brother strike him down and restore honor. But Yone feared harming him more then he feared death. And when Yasuo looked him over, noticed the white-knuckled grip on his weapon and the faux confidence on his face, he understood that Yone feared death greatly. Greater than he’d ever admit, because that’s how he was in life, and that’s how he would be up until the very end; brave and stoic.

Dauntless.

Yasuo gazed up, at the pallid complexion of the moon and at the eight tines of every star, and then he glanced down, at the maple seeds and at the trampled grass where he’d paced for hours.

He inhaled.

Straightened his spine. Brought both hands to bear the handle. Rested the flat of the blade between his closed eyes.

He exhaled.

Lowered until his feet were where Yone had taught him a lifetime ago. Raised the weapon into a high guard where the point aimed at his target. Opened his eyes.

Yone was there, in the same guard and stance. The same look in his cold, anxious blue eyes.

Silence while the stars watched and the moon loomed. Silence for so long.

Yone moved first. A reckless charge that exposed almost everything to an attack, so unlike his usual technique.

He waited, waited until the blade was flying down toward him like a silver angel sent from the stars, and then he sidestepped to the left. In the same motion, he swung horizontally right-to-left, and it was all over.

Frozen steel seared through warm flesh like a hot knife through butter, an arc of carmine sweeping, sweeping, and falling.

Yasuo’s weapon hit the earth, and he was rushing forward, capturing his brother’s body before he could tumble. A hand supported the nape of his neck while the other wrapped around his waist and held him tight, descending until his brother lay languidly in his lap.

Silence while the stars sneered and the moon glared. Silence while Yone struggled for life, while red gurgled and gushed from his neck, from his lips.

The eyes blue and draining and scared but trying not to show it looked to him.

His hand, doused in his own blood, pressed a red handprint to Yasuo’s chest. Yasuo released his waist, grabbed his hand from his chest, gripped it tight like he could pull him back from the brink of death but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, and so his brother died gradually in his arms and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Yone opened his mouth.

Yasuo leaned in, raised his brother’s head so he could hear him.

“I-… I love… you…”

Yone ripped a sob from his brother’s throat, with so much force he squeezed his eyes, winced, bowed his head until forehead touched forehead.

“I love… you…”

“I’m s-.” He choked on his tears while Yone choked on his blood. “I’m sorry.”

“S-… Say it… Pleas-… Please…”

He clenched his hand, wringing as much contact from his brother’s weakening hand.

“I love you, too, Yone.”

Yone didn’t smile, but the fear left him. He reclined, tension disappearing. Stared at the stars, and Yasuo stared at the reflections of the stars in his brother’s shimmering eyes.

“I love you.”

And he was gone.

His eyes pools of starlight, his throat a scarf of slick red. His body limp. His fingers slack, and they slipped like sand between Yasuo’s.

His face was graced by a downfall of diamonds, but even that wasn’t good enough for his worthy soul. Rubies, or the purple Hextech gems seemed more fitting. Or sapphires.

Sapphires made the most sense; Yone had always loved the color of sapphires. But Yasuo couldn’t give Yone sapphires, only diamonds, and they shattered against his brother’s sapphire cowl.

He closed his eyelids with his gentle, bloody fingertips and kissed his forehead. He kept his lips pressed as he wept, as he sprinkled more diamonds but not sapphires in his brother’s rustled, jet-black hair. The wind lent a comforting embrace, but Yasuo wanted none of that. It had caused this.

Two years wasn’t long enough to erase his memory of the white-haired woman from his mind. How she’d picked him up like a ragdoll and tossed him across the playground. She knew the _Wind Technique_ , and attended Coeur Valley’s destruction. It was likely she’d perished as well way back then.

But until he was certain of her fate, he would search, and he would find her. Because he could spy footsteps atop the water’s glassy surface, because he could scent a deer from here to another continent.

He looked up. Yone would like it here, with a clear view of the sky. He didn’t have a shovel, and he had a new lead now. Places to be and all that hubbub, so he couldn’t spare the travel time for retrieving anything shovel-like.

He decided that, in his endless sleep, Yone would appreciate a softer mattress than nature’s. He surrendered his bedroll without question, veiling his brother’s body all the way up, but he stopped.

The cowl. A gift from him to his brother. Yone wouldn’t want it to rot along with him.

Yasuo slipped the cowl from around his brother’s neck with so much care, anyone would think he was just sleeping lightly. The blood rolled off in rivulets, as was designed; it would never bear water or blood or anything wet and annoying. An excellent choice in garment for travelling, and their old lifestyle had them travelling across worlds.

Well, across Ionia anyway, but back then, Ionia was their whole world.

One last look at his face so that he wouldn’t forget what he looked like. Then it dipped beneath the veil, never to be seen again. His sword, sheathed, laid out beside him as was Kashuld custom.

He placed his hand where he knew Yone’s would be under the cloth, dipped his head low until his nose was filled by the sapphire cowl that draped down his bare shoulder.

“Goodbye Yone.”

And that was all he said. Any more words would be wasted.

He stood.

He turned.

And he walked.

He walked where she might be. He walked where she might not be. He walked everywhere in between. He walked until he couldn’t walk anymore.

And then he ran like the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so don't expect Yasuo to get as much screen time as Riven. In fact, don't expect him to get near as much screen time as Riven. I'm trying to experiment here, and when I originally wrote this character, what I tried to do with him fell into shambles. But second time's the charm, right?
> 
> Thank you for reading this far! Please comment, and I'll see you next chapter.


	7. The Blind Monk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much feedback! Thank you all so much, and here's another chapter!

**10 Years Ago**

Crimson eyes opened in a flash, and Riven hissed, strangled a howl of pain, and rolled to her stomach.

The burns. She’d fallen asleep on her back again, and she was paying the price for her restlessness. The damp grass of the slanted ground served some relief, but the mangled flesh of her back and her arms still felt like she was treading water in lava.

And she had been. In her dream, of course. In her nightmare. Green lava, searing through her steel plate, through her skin, through her ribcage, up and into her lungs where it bubbled up her esophagus and spurted out of her screeching mouth.

She hissed, her palms and her knees doused in the early morning dew planted into the mountainside. Head hung, teeth grit, breath ragged and barely coming, fingers burrowing into the wet soil while she waited for the pain to stop.

Not all of it. Just enough to move, to inch over to her pack lain beside the imprint of her body in the grass and sift through the contents for the medicine.

Deep breaths, head to the dirt, and it passed.

But the medicine, and she reached far over and plucked the jar from the satchel, unscrewed the lid, unrolled the bandages on her arms, and untied the strings of the corset at her spine and unrolled the coverings on her chest.

She was bare from the waist up now, but there was no one around to care, so neither did she.

The first cautious licks of the cream against her mangled skin and her breath hitched. Then, the penetrating cool lathered all the way up her arms, all the way across her back, and her lungs were full of air again, not lava.

Her eyes closed, face accepting the soft caress of the rising sun’s gentle rays, lips parted and sucking in air and basking in the high of feeling normal. She’d forgotten what normality was like since the last application of the ointment. Forgotten what a life without constant pain was like.

And then she winced, spine arched when the tingle returned. When the few precious seconds of painlessness had passed, and the steady buzz returned.

She sighed, grunted, opened her eyes. Irritation was setting in and ruining her good mood.

More bandages. Around her forearms, her triceps, all up her back, and if she burned through anything faster than the medicine, it was bandages. Like a mummified pharaoh from the Shurima, but the townsfolk would ask too many questions if she covered her face, so the shadowy bags on her rotted cheeks beneath her thousand-yard stare was bared to everyone and everything that cared to glance.

Like her breasts were now, and she wrapped them before a stray traveler could sneak a peek at her goods.

She stood, looked up to the rising slope of the land, to the not-so-far summit obscured by trees, and staggered over to the stone path. She’d climbed a good ways up under night’s starry blanket, and now the sun was just beginning to peer down over the mountain.

Clop, clop, clop went her sandals on the stone, and further and further she ascended until the stone path surrendered to elements and all that was left was dirt path. She followed that dirt path, studied the countless footprints until she rounded up and over, and stopped.

And stared.

The mountain didn’t round off to an easy crest; instead, the peak had been scooped away, a bowl carved deep into the plateau. Like a crater of a volcanoes, but Riven knew of no volcanoes on Ionia.

And there, across a sea of green, of the emerald canopy of trees. Across a forest shroud marred by the undulating meadows and blemished by the blue ponds, bluer than the sky. Across shrines and seeping clearings where awesome, stone totems withered in the passing ages of time. Across a mountaintop valley teeming with people, was the monastery.

It perched atop the crest opposite her, on the far lip of the valley, tendrils of pathways creeping down the bowl where the roots disappeared behind the canopy. The only way to it was through, and so she inhaled the mountain air and hiked down the walls, down to the path that cut through the greenwood.

Unquestionably vivacious. A leafy ceiling that allowed only slivers of sunlight sheltered her walk through the forest.

She could witness the monuments and the totems closer now, could scan the etched words and the faces and the sculpted edges and curves of stone and wood giants. She could smell the sweet flowers lining the pathway, and the cherry blossoms fuchsia and swirling in the breeze, swirling in pink showers all around her. She could hear the voices echoed over pooled mirrors.

She stopped then, drawn to the bank of the mirror, and she crouched, removed her hood.

Her reflection greeted her with tired eyes and the slouched posture of exhaustion. With a cloak over its shoulders that covered its burns, and bandages from its wrists to its shoulders.

So tired.

She extended a hand, carefully, like it might bolt if she didn’t approach with tact. And she touched its palm with her own. Watched the mirror ripple, felt the cold seep into her veins and cloud her eyes. Her eyes devoid of color.

So sad.

It was _sad?_

It was _tired?_

Riven clenched her jaw, fingers trembled.

The _nerve_. It was sad and tired, it pitied itself like it deserved to feel pity and didn’t deserve sadness and exhaustion. Like it hadn’t killed a little girl and an old man and villages of fisherman, like it deserved to feel anything other than shame. Like _it_ was the victim of its conscious decisions.

Its eyes turned blood red, lips in a snarl, and Riven backhanded the mirror like the glass would shatter and it would die. But it didn’t.

It just sat there, glaring at her. Hollow shell filled with anger, because that was all it could fill itself with these days. Anger and rage and wrath.

She stood suddenly, and so did it, and she was ready to obliterate the mirror so she didn’t have to look at _it_ anymore.

Giggling down the cobbled road, and Riven startled, eyes darting to a group of women as young as she. They hadn’t noticed her yet, and with quivering fingers and a hammering heart, she yanked the hood over her features, bowed her head, and walked away.

She arrived quicker than she expected to a set double doors that belonged in a stone fortress at the start of the path to the monastery. The way through was open, the dark wooden doors groaning on their hinges with every passing wind, and she paused.

She’d ridden this gale purely on the hope that she would reach Lee Sin, and now, as she stood at the doorway, hope was petering out. There was nothing binding Lee Sin’s cooperation, no paper contracts or promises. He could very well turn her away at the top of the steps, and she would have nowhere else to go.

Maybe he would see her darkened skin, realize her Noxian heritage and shun her race away? Maybe someone would recognize her on her way up the path and she would be slain before she ever reached her chance?

But that was ludicrous. She’d left no survivors.

A breeze at her back and the wind whispered comforting things into her ear. And then her feet were moving. And when she could move forward no more, her foot lifted and planted on the first step.

Then the second and the third, and she was gradually scaling the stairway. Up the zigzagging stairway until she met the first obstacle: a cluster of houses built into the steep wall of the valley. The ground evened out, but she was barely a third of the way up, and when she looked to the top, she noticed how the path winded through several other plateaus like this one.

Black tiled roofs that rolled like waves and red, wooden walls was the theme, and villagers and monks in plain robes roamed the single alleyway through which the stone road traveled.

And they all stared as she passed.

She was a murderer in the midst of their haven away from the war front, and she certainly felt the part with the glares and the hush that descended like a dense fog. Her tanned flesh burned, her grimy nails cut into her palms as she walked. As they glared.

This was where she realized she wasn’t wanted. Where she looked at her hands and noticed the bloodstains and she turned and ran down the stairs, through the valley, all the way down the mountain where she would catch the next fishing trawler that would escape her from this land where she didn’t belong.

But she didn’t. She’d come so far; two years it’d taken her to drum up the courage to catch a boat to Ionia. Two years of hateful looks and spiteful words thrown her way, and though she doubted that would ever change, she could at least fill her empty cup with something other than red, bloody fury.

Like now. She should be embarrassed, but she’d forgotten what embarrassment was. And because she knew she should feel _something_ under their glare, she filled herself up with the only thing she still possessed. To compensate.

Rage. At them.

No, that was wrong, she didn’t want to wring their necks; she wanted to wring her own. But she didn’t.

And now she was confused, flustered and furious and poorly concealing it and she stomped down the alleyway, brushing past them and their necks and she felt like an idiot.

Then she reached the stairs on the other side, and she drained until there was nothing again. Drained onto the stone stairs, and she looked down as she stepped up, watched the red spread through the mortar canyons between the stones.

She received the same reaction on the next plateau, and the next, and the next, and just after that one she had to pause at the side of the road, bent over, breathing ragged, gripping the brick and mortar railing and seething because she was so angry and she didn’t know why.

The rock of the railing cracked beneath her strength and finally, after a count to forty-seven, she was hollow enough to continue.

A peaceful silence ahead, and she was nearing the top until she clopped up the final step.

“Monastery”? No, this was too gorgeous to be a monastery. This was a temple built for the gods and goddesses, built by the gods and goddesses.

The black tiled roof was there, but the waves were tsunamis, a surge of rolling, starless night between each rising tier of the main temple. The red walls were present, but they were intense splotches of scarlet against the blue sky, entire passages from various holy books scrawled elegantly across its surface. Two halls diverged from the ground floor, connecting to two separate wings that soared almost as high as the middle, and monks ambled across the arching bridges that connected the upper floors of the wings to the main structure.

And between Riven and the temple, in the middle of the green courtyard spattered with cherry blossoms and spindly banzai, was a tree. It was huge; it blocked most of the temple from Riven’s perspective, and yet its branches were bare of leaves, despite every other tree atop the mountain in full bloom.

But it wasn’t bare.

In place of leaves, there were scrolls. Small scrolls, like notes posted to a billboard, hanging from twine by the branches. And the boughs sagged with the sheer number of scrolls; she’d mistaken them for yellowed leaves at first.

It was alluring, and she was drifting forward, paying no attention to the throng of monks gathering a safe distance away to speculate a Noxian’s presence.

The scrolls fluttered in the breeze and as Riven, captivated, extended a hand to grab one, the entire tree stilled. Like the breeze had vanished, but it hadn’t, and still the letters were stationary.

She touched a scroll.

Odd. She could feel something, something other than anger. Nostalgia, maybe.

She touched another.

Sorrow. So much sorrow that a tear was coaxed from her eyes, and it rolled down her cheek, and plinked into the water.

It was overpowering, but it was something other than anger and she was hooked. Hooked so bad that she grasped the scroll, crinkled it with how desperately she pawed at it and she wept silently. Wept because it wasn’t anger, because it was something new, refreshing.

She couldn’t stand any longer, and her legs gave out and her knees hit the grass and her hands grasped the edge of the fountain the tree lived in, the letter still locked between her fingers. She looked into the mirror again, the mirror that rippled with every tear shed upon its surface.

Her reflection was there, but it didn’t glare. Eyes puffy, gasping for air because the sorrow still spilled through the paper and into her soul but it wouldn’t let go because the anger might return to take sorrow’s place. And it didn’t want that. She didn’t want that either.

A man was beside her now. Tall, but not as tall as she. His head peeked over the rim beside her. He respected her silence, just stood by her and looked at his on reflection.

When he spoke, Riven looked to his reflection instead of the man himself.

“This tree is a marvel, is it not?”

He spoke in Noxian, heavily accented to the point where Riven could barely make out his words.

In Ionian, voice cracking to her discomfort, “I speak Ionian.”

“Yes,” the man said, “but I have few chances to practice my Noxian. So if you do not mind?”

Another tear into the fountain, and she panted. She shook her head, too overwhelmed to speak.

His reflection extended a hand toward her. “I do not wish to appear discourteous, but that parchment in your hand is of grave importance.”

She said nothing, made no move to give it to him, just breathed, shed more tears, welcomed the constricting of her heart that bled.

Yet he didn’t seem even the least bit annoyed. “Please.”

Still nothing. Just panting.

His reflection reached for it, but she yanked it away, held it close to her heart because the anger might return if the sorrow disappeared, and she didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore.

“Please.”

His tone reached her, not at all demanding. Quite the opposite; careful, like she was fragile. She turned toward him, looked up and he looked down, his hand still extended.

“Please,” he said once more. “Upon this parchment are someone’s confessions and wishes. Those are vital to life, would you agree?”

And she would. Her whole life was confessions of sin and wishes to right them, and yet she was still hesitant as she offered the parchment.

He pinched it between his fingers but she wouldn’t let him take it.

“Please.”

She released it, and just as soon as the parchment was gone, the sorrow was ripped from her chest. She fell backward, the fountain rim scraping into her spine, and she was hollow again.

“Thank you,” he said softly, smoothing the creases and slipping the scroll through its loop again.

She regained her breath, regained some semblance of control and she looked back to him. And frowned. She looked to the rippling mirror, to his reflection. Face unobstructed, eyes peering over the water.

She looked back to the real him. A red blindfold wrapped several times around his eyes. She looked back to the reflection, saw that his eyes were gazing at her, then looked to the man. Gazing straight at her, gazing through the red blindfold.

His blind face angled out over the fountain again.

“This is where the confessions are confessed and the wishes wished.”

She glanced over, at the notes fluttering in the breeze.

He kneeled, charcoal ponytail that wrapped around his neck sagging, staring straight into the water. His reflection stared at him, at his blindfold that didn’t exist in the mirror.

“This is the Wishing Tree.”

He reached out, trailed a finger across the glass, and dimpled the surface.

“And these are the tears of the Wishing Tree.”

Riven craned her head around, gaze skipping across the water until it landed on the tree, on the boulder the tree stood upon. Water seeped from the roots of the tree, trickled down the boulder, and dripped into the water.

She looked back to the man as he swished the water again.

“The tears show us our greatest wishes.”

Riven looked to his reflection. “Yours is…?”

“To see again.”

Silence as he trailed more patterns into the mirror, wrinkles quivering along.

“To see the colors of the sunset again: that is my wish. I know it will not happen.” He smiled, whimsical and faint. “And yet I wish for it to happen. Unceasingly.”

Riven looked to her reflection, but it was only her reflection, and she hardly believed she wished to be sorrowful. The man noticed, though he couldn’t see.

“You do not know what you wish for,” he said, swished to her reflection and ripples glimmered through the mirror. Flashes of something changing in the ripples, but the image was distorted and she couldn’t discern the image.

“I can help you find this.”

When she looked back to the man, his head was angled to her, the jewel over his blindfold sparkling, his trimmed goatee trembling in a sudden wind.

He extended a hand, a hand wrapped in bandage and patterned by scarlet ribbon. A hand that was calloused and welcoming.

“I am Lee Sin.”

She stared at him, at the offer, at the jewel on the bandage.

She stared at the reflection, rippled the water with her finger and frowned when she couldn’t glimpse the same shimmer of change.

His offer hadn’t wavered.

She reached out, tentatively, and linked hands.

He stood, and without much effort he pulled her to her feet, his naked chest bulging with muscle, black ink that snaked up his torso slithering.

“I am Riven.” Damn the consequences; if he recognized her, so be it.

But if he did, there was no indication. A benevolent smile.

“Hirana graciously accepts you, Riven.”

Riven nodded, but the dirty glares from the audience said otherwise.

“Do not mind them,” Lee Sin said, gesturing toward the audience. “They allow color to hinder their judgment, but I will do no such thing.”

Riven nodded, and she only realized their hands were still interlinked when he stepped away and broke the contact.

“I can help you, Riven, but only if you allow it. Will you?” and his question was grave, his expression serious. An oath.

This was what the Elder wanted. This was what _she_ wanted. To feel sorrow instead of anger. Or anything, joy, remorse, pride, heartache, just anything but anger and fury and rage because they were sour on her tongue now.

“Okay,” the answer was too easy. “Okay. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and I'll see you all next chapter!


	8. Diversion and Subterfuge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has received so much support, and I thank everyone who has read thus far. I apologize for the delay; life happens, and it happens without warning.

**9 Years Ago**

The world was shades of white.

Lee Sin didn’t know there were different shades of white. Not greys; there was a distinct difference between white and grey, and the swirling canvas he saw was definitely not grey. It was the color of nothing, of absence, and, had he been the poetic type, the color of what he’d lost. But Lee Sin preferred not to lament over something he couldn’t change, so he focused on the not-quite-white that floated inches from his face.

Focused on the world the other senses created.

The loud, brusque flap of wings pummeling the air as a flock of birds soared in their convoys through the open sky. The quietness echoing from the walls of the spacious training yard, empty save a few dangling punching bags that creaked on their chains.

The chill of the morning air nipping at his skin, gooseflesh flourishing across his flexing arms. The cold countered by the glare of the sun that flushed his pale cheeks, warmed him just enough to be comfortable.

The perfume wafting from the cherry blossoms so soft and silky between the calloused pads of his fingers.

Mornings like these were why Lee Sin wished he could see; the sky must be gorgeous, an even spread of cerulean as far as the eye could see, crowned by a sun of blinding yellow. Or maybe there were white swabs of cotton drifting lazily, and maybe the sky was of robin’s-egg blue?

Robin’s eggs were blue, weren’t they? Or had he forgotten what that looked like, too?

But that wasn’t important now; the present demanded his full attention and though he couldn’t see the tall woman with platinum hair- there were enough murmurs and rumors about her that he didn’t need to guess her appearance- there were other ways to know of her presence.

Like the whoosh of air inhaled through her nostrils, the rasp of her breath throughout her lips as she attempted a controlled pattern of breathing and it was working somewhat.

The sharp, fuzzy tang of body odor and sweat from hours of practice, the hints of cologne mostly unnoticeable except when a strong breeze blew through.

The sound of her profile hunched into a combat stance. Or rather, the sound of the space she occupied.

Human ears, even when thoroughly trained, can only hear so much; echolocation is impossible, but then so is fighting blind, and Sin hadn’t been keen on giving up so early into his career. So he’d hiked and hiked until he’d found a cave where the birds and the bats that saw with sound dwelled and over the course of years, he’d learned their secrets. With a bit of practice, he could pinpoint an airborne grape from across the room, provided the room was quiet.

But Riven’s fist wasn’t a grape a quiet room away. It was a grapefruit not two strides from his leading foot, and thus he could “see” it easily as it powered toward his jaw.

He had a different tune for every battle: angry staccatos for the easier clashes to keep him alive when the fight was boring and quick, and sluggish, even tempos to keep him steady and calm when the fight was grueling and difficult.

He hummed a tune somewhere in between, the waves of sound returning in intervals that sculpted an image of where she was in time and space. The fist was strong and hard, with all the mass of the woman throwing it charging behind it like a raging bull.

He intercepted the fist with the palm of his left hand, redirected its path past his right shoulder and in the time Riven took to realize the miss and retreat, Sin rolled her overextended arm down, across, and threw her fist away to the left.

At the same time, he advanced and struck her abdomen with his right, and Riven received it well, clenching to lessen the blow.

But the distraction worked, and with the wrist of one of her hands controlled by his and her free protecting her abdomen, her face was unguarded and he struck fast and sudden with his right again.

She didn’t expect it, grunted inaudibly, a sharp intake of breath, shocked for a split second and Sin released her arm, coiled and unleashed a powerful roundhouse with his left leg.

Riven recovered but not enough to completely duck under; Sin felt his shin knock against the top of her head, but that was enough and the thump of clumsy feet on the mat and the grumble betrayed her daze.

Sin advanced quickly, closed in and prepared to strike the rear of her head but it was a brilliant trap. She’d played on his confidence and he recognized he’d made a mistake when he heard her feet thud into a sturdy stance sooner than she should have but it was too late.

A whoosh as Riven whipped around and Sin couldn’t overpower his momentum in time, and not a moment later a foot, texture rough from the tape wrappings, slammed squarely into his chest and he was reminded of Riven’s sheer strength as he was knocked off of his feet.

He landed soft and nimbly, but he didn’t attempt to get up. He needed to confirm something.

As predicted, Riven stood there. Awkwardly bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting for Sin to raise himself from the ground.

Lee Sin sighed, relaxed.

“Riven?”

“Yes?” she replied.

“What are you doing?”

She stopped bouncing, hesitance evident in her voice as she panted. “What do you mean?”

Sin sat up, pinpointed the smell of her sweat and angled his head in her direction. “Come, sit.”

Her footsteps were light, her loose pants rustling against the mat as she touched down. The material of the cloth swished as she shifted in the uneasy silence.

“What were you doing just then?” Sin asked, nodding toward where they’d fought.

Riven’s breath was heavy, laced with exasperation. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You stood there, like you were afraid to attack me.”

“When?” He could hear the frown in her voice.

“Just now.”

“I’m not sure I understand-.”

“You struck with strength and determination, but when you put me to the ground, you suddenly became docile. Why?” Sin stared when Riven didn’t immediately answer, listened to the pounding of her heart against her ribcage that slowed. Picked apart the silence until he realized she was holding back and deciding whether to let anything slip.

A long sigh, one that released no small amount of tension from her shoulders and he waited for her to speak.

“I’ve lost a lot, Sin. My home. My country. What friends I had.”

Sin nodded, hummed and he could see that she wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was gazing somewhere to the right, an area void of anything interesting.

“And not the least of which, my honor.” Her foot tapped the ground with rhythm while she thought, the mat vibrating with each fall of her toes. “I feel like that’s all I have these days. Honor.”

Her foot stopped, the clarity of her voice indicating that she was looking straight at him. “Even then I don’t have much. I have to ration it so I don’t starve.”

She gestured toward the monastery, but Sin knew it was a gesture to the whole world, not just Hirana. “I’ve seen the way people look at me. My tattered rags and my heritage. Both are soiled. The only thing I have is my honor. And I’m not-.”

She paused, composed herself out of her own need to seem stoic. A need that Sin found unnecessary, but he didn’t comment.

“I will _not_ forfeit what honor I have left.”

“You think attacking while I am grounded is dishonorable?” Sin asked when she was finished.

She nodded.

“And while my attentions are unaware?”

Another nod.

“And sand in the eyes?”

“That’s dirty fighting plain and simple-.”

He struck before she was finished speaking, a light jab to her throat, and her reaction was instantaneous.

Gasping, frantic scrabbling at her throat, splitting her attention between her abused esophagus and the man still sitting casually before her, like he didn’t just strike her in the neck mid-sentence.

He waited patiently, listening to her heart pound and her lungs wheeze.

“You would say that what I have done is unfair, correct?” Sin asked.

Riven coughed, almost ripped the mat with how hard she gripped it. “Very,” she rasped.

“That does not matter now,” he said, nodded at her throat. “I have crushed your throat and while you were distracted, I broke your neck. What do you do now? There is a correct answer.”

Her brow squinted, spluttering for an answer. “I- I-.”

“You do nothing. You are dead.”

Riven said nothing, just stared at him. Sin allowed her some time to ruminate, listened to the voices dripping from the upper balconies, tasted the first whiffs of breakfast from the kitchen on the cold morning air. There were new visitors to the temple climbing the stairs; he could hear their heavy footfalls.

Riven was once one of them. A year had passed and so had much progress, but this matter needed sorting out before they continued any further.

“You live by an oath, do you not?” Sin asked.

Riven’s attention returned to him. “Yes.”

Sin nodded in acknowledgment, face to the sky, soaking up the sun’s rays.

“I believe your quest for the ultimate good has blinded you to the realities of conflict,” he said.

A pause.

“You think my oath is flawed?” she asked.

“Correct.”

Another pause.

“How so?”

“You are here for redemption. You seek atonement for your sins. You wish to learn and grow as a person.”

Riven nodded, and Sin faced her.

“That is admirable. The world could learn a thing or two from your determination. But just because you are willing to change does not mean the world is willing to change with you.”

Riven shook her head, carded her fingers through her silvery locks that sang under the sunlight. “I don’t understand. What’s your point?”

“You wish to show mercy? To- oh, what is the phrase- talk things out?”

“Yes.”

“What happens when they do not talk?”

“We fight.”

“But you are already at a disadvantage,” Sin said.

“And how is that?”

“The fight is not on your terms.”

Sin heard the frown in her silence, the puzzlement in the way she traced a pattern into the mat with her fingernail.

“Fighting is your last resort. You are backed into a corner; there is no other option now. Perhaps they are the better fighter? Perhaps they slay you and leave you to die in the dirt?” he asked gravely.

“Then…” Riven’s frown was more apparent, her gaze locked on the floor until she reached a conclusion. “Then I suppose I die.”

“What if you were to strike first instead? Before they expect it, so that there is no fight at all?”

Riven shook her head adamantly. “No.”

“What about sand in the eyes? You would win if he couldn’t see.”

Riven scoffed. “What’s the point? A hollow victory.”

“And you would rather die than live?”

Her brow furrowed. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it is,” Sin said, like the answer was obvious. “They are the superior warrior. A battle you cannot win with just your sword and your skill.”

“Then perhaps I deserve to die!” And then hastily, “In this instance.”

Sin shook his head with disgust. “A poisonous way to think. Tell me: when you are dead at their hands, will you take pride that your journey has ended? So much of the world left to explore, but you wasted the chance because you believed honor comes before your own life.”

“I don’t need you criticizing my world views,” Riven said, scorned.

Sin looked at her. Really looked at her; if his eyes weren’t obscured by blood red, they would be staring right into hers. “Your world views will martyr you.”

And then, softer, because no one could take that news well, “I sympathize, Riven. Punishing for a crime that hasn’t been committed? That is how you see it, correct?”

Riven snorted. “Something like it.”

“It is unfair. But what they are about to do is even more so. Such is the price for peace.”

Riven stared somewhere uninteresting again. “Peace doesn’t seem so appealing, when you put it that way.”

“It is reality.”

Riven stewed in that, in reality spiced by sweat and the cold morning air. She would learn in time, Sin was confident. She possessed too much potential to fail.

“We should not seek bloodshed. Death is the only absolute, and so we must be undivided in our position that our intentions are true when we offer a soul for her to take.” Her attention returned to him. “However, we must also ensure that we still stand when the dust settles, or else our struggles are naught.”

“What if the price is too high?” Riven asked.

Sin smiled faintly at that, tracked a stray cherry blossom dancing through the air a good distance away.

“That is for _you_ to decide.”

A discontent huff of air.

“I do not have all the answers, Riven. You must discover that yourself.”

Silence between them. His brothers wandered into the yard at a slow rate, just a few sprinkled here and there. Breakfast was pungent, and the vociferous conversations flooded from the balconies and the doors open and welcoming the day. Travelers came and went, trekking up and down the stone stairway, leaving another letter to bow the limbs of the Wishing Tree.

“Do one thing for me, Riven,” and Riven faced him again.

“What is it?”

“Release your inhibitions,” and that earned a huff of air expelled from her nostrils. Muted, indistinguishable from a passing breeze, but Sin heard it. “Do not cease your assault until I am defeated. Do not hold back. Whatever you may think of my words, try them. Test them.”

Uncertainty, still. A dilemma between her morals and his words.

“If you do not agree, forget my lesson and move on. I only ask that you try.” He stood, offered a hand for her to take. “That is all I have ever asked of you. To try.”

A sigh so deep and profound he thought maybe it was the spirits of the wind passing them by, and Riven regarded him from her seat on the floor. Then a hand decidedly feminine gripped his, and he pulled upward.

But she kept raising long past when she should have stopped, and he realized too late what she was doing. Her forehead cracked against his nose and he staggered, reminded again of Riven’s immense strength. He regained his footing and twisted to face her, but she hadn’t advanced just yet. He relaxed, but not too much.

He wagged a finger, the slightest smirk on his face and his tone as he dropped low. “You are a quick learner. See how one benefits from the element of surprise?”

Riven rolled her neck, transferred her weight from one foot to the other in that way that betrayed her discomfort. “I still don’t like it.”

An amused rumble escaped from deep in his broad chest. “Good.” Sin hummed, honed in on an opening in her guard.

“Change does not come easy. If it did, I would not need to practice the art of echolocation for four years just to recognize the flaw in your stance.”

Riven glanced down.

Lee Sin attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! See you all next chapter!


	9. Conversations Beneath Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay between chapters. Hope you enjoy!

**8 Years Ago**

Blood oozed through her fingers, thick ropes of scarlet flowing, spooling in her lap like melting twine. The world was foggy, the floor unyielding and cold. And there was no sound.

No sound but the gurgling from Hana’s lips, the slick glop of an endless red stream that spilled to the floor. The floor rippled in response, like the floor was water, like the floor was the tears of the Wishing Tree, but when Riven glanced down, she hardly believed her greatest wish was to kneel here in this foggy world with Hana’s head in her hands.

Yet there she was. Kneeling with Hana’s head in her hands, scarlet staining the water, flourishing through the crystal depths like the petals of the flower in Hana’s charcoal hair.

Riven wasn’t focused on how the world gradually shifted to red, how the veins of red spread across the water’s surface like an infection, how the veins and the scarlet vines and the carmine roses jumped from the water and corrupted the fog. Riven wasn’t aware of any of that.

Hana was saying something, or trying to, and Riven was intently listening. But the words were whispered so quietly she couldn’t understand them, and only the sharp lisps of syllables reached her.

“What are you saying?” Riven tried to ask, but nothing came out.

Hana kept whispering, staring at her with those eyes so blue. Riven leaned in, put her ear up to where her mouth once was, but the volume was just the same; an incoherent whisper. Then the whispering stopped and Riven frowned, turned her gaze back to Hana.

Dead. Hana was dead again, eyes rolled into her skull, skin pale and cold. Then Riven looked up and noticed her surroundings, noticed how the blood was billowing toward her, how the air was coppery and stifling.

Riven stood.

But the floor gave away and the cold, cold water enveloped her, dragged her downward. She tried to swim, to move her arms, but even with her great strength she could not; the water was too syrupy, too red with blood. She strained and she struggled and her muscles burned but it was like swimming through taffy.

Riven quelled panic; she was drown-proof, courtesy of countless water drills.

But this wasn’t water. This was blood. And when finally she could hold her breath no longer, when she tasted it through her open mouth, when she breathed it in. Only when Hana’s blood filled her lungs and choked her did Riven panic.

Now she could hear her screams. Could hear her hands thrashing and clawing, her heart thudding like a sonar pulse. _Thud-thud_. _Thud-thud_. _Thud-thud_.

Her vision tinted red, her eyes open wide as she sank lower and lower and her frantic stirring slowed.

Her arms wouldn’t obey, her legs crawling to a stop, the bonfire consuming her lungs, and she was losing feeling. First her fingers and her toes, then her hands and feet. A tingling that faded into nothing, like her fingers and toes hadn’t ever existed, but they had to have because she could see her fingers limply reaching for the red surface. She couldn’t feel them, but she could see them.

Then her calves and forearms, a tingle that preceded the nothingness. Then her shoulders and hips, her stomach, her cheeks. She would’ve sighed in relief if she could when the flames in her lungs quelled, when the horrible, burning pain tingled into nothing.

Then with a last, desperate, _failed_ attempt at a breath, her face. Her tongue that swelled. Her mind that clouded into frightened gibberish. Her eyes that wouldn’t close while she watched herself slip into the dark.

Watched the red fade to black. Watched the last bubbles of air spill from her mouth and rush toward the surface.

And then, when her body laid to rest at the pitch-black bottom where there was nothing to see but still her eyes were open anyways, Riven died.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven bolted up in her cot, the thin covers pooling at her waist. Drenched in sweat, she heaved gulps of air, scrabbling at the floor.

She was very much alive, and very much awake, but the way her heart pounded painfully against her ribs and her roiling stomach made her wish otherwise. She drew her knees to her chest and cradled her face in her hands, nervously shuffling her fingers in her loose hair.

The dreams weren’t always so. Sometimes, instead of blood, she drowned in green sludge that ate her skin and swallowed her whole, and she would awake howling with her burns feeling fresh and new. She- and her neighbors’ sleep- were relatively fortunate this time.

However, there was always Hana. Sometimes all of her, sometimes not, but always whispering something Riven couldn’t quite hear.

Deep breaths: that’s what Sin told her to do when the dreams stalked her in her sleep. Deep breaths, and the knowledge that this was the waking world. The dream world had no power in the waking world. She was safe.

She didn’t feel safe. Here, in a temple of combat amidst some of the greatest fighters of Ionia, she only felt nauseous. And guilty.

“Are you in need of help?”

Riven jumped, reaching for her sword, but she halted when she recognized Sin. She grimaced and covered her face with her hands to wipe off the shock, her heart about to burst through her sternum. “Gods above, Sin. A warning would suffice.”

“Apologies,” he said, and leaned against the doorway.

Riven inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. She looked straight forward, ogling the way the paper wall reflected the moonlight pouring through the open doorway. His shifting shadow reminded her Sin was still present.

His head tilted, a question at the tip of his tongue but he was hesitant to ask.

“What?” she asked with more bite than was necessary, but she preferred to be alone at the moment.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” But he caught his own lie, and said, “I am merely intrigued. You do not appear a woman of any God or Goddess.”

“Why? Because I don’t pray before every meal?” she spat.

“Because you have never prayed.”

She avoided his gaze, and found comfort in the silvery light of the wall again. “Perhaps you haven’t seen me pray.”

He was beside her before she knew it, but the room was so small it was a meager two strides to her cot on the floor. Then he gently lowered to seat himself cross-legged facing her. “Or perhaps you do not pray at all.”

There was no immediate response. Riven stared at the wall some more, then down into her lap. Despite wearing only her chest bindings and her underwear, she removed the rest of her covers, relishing the cool air against her skin. Her audience was blind; nudity mattered little.

She shook her head, a firm, “No.”

“‘No,’ you do not believe, or…?”

“ _No_ , I don’t wish to share my beliefs with you.” She huffed through her nose and glanced toward him. “Why are you here, anyways?”

Sin gestured toward the doorway. “I could hear your breathing from across the courtyard.”

Riven had nothing for that, just a disbelieving shake of her head.

“As for why specifically me…” he continued searching for words behind that blindfold of his, “The last man I sent to ensure your safety and comfort still recovers.”

Riven snorted. “Shaking someone awake from a nightmare might not be the best approach.”

“I apologize on his behalf. Brother Taro is... gruff. Mindless at times. Sense tends to leave him when confronted with an issue unsolvable by brute force.”

Riven didn’t respond. She was listening to the sounds of the night drifting through the doorway, the confused hoot of owls, the breeze through the rafters, the distant hubbub of refugees receiving supper from the kitchen, and the silence of absent temple-goers. A wonderful place, this monastery was.

“What was your dream about?” Sin asked.

Riven sighed, rested her forehead against her knees. “It was a nightmare.”

“What was your nightmare about?” Sin repeated.

“… Something unpleasant.”

“Avoiding the question helps neither you nor I.”

A pause while decided the course of action. “… Drowning.”

“Drowning?”

“Drowning.”

“Drowning.” That was all Sin would squeeze out of Riven and he knew it. But Sin was persistent, almost as much as Riven. “Do you fear drowning?”

“Yes,” she said, and decided to offer up a little more. “That and falling.”

“So, a fear of heights?”

Riven shook her head. “No. Vertigo isn’t an issue. It’s the fall.”

Sin nodded. “Because you are helpless.”

“Yes. And drowning for the same reason.”

“Can you not swim?” Sin asked.

“I can swim. I can swim well. Nothing like the divers on the coast of Bilgewater, but better than the average individual.” She breathed consciously, reminding herself that she was awake and alive. “Drowning insinuates that for whatever reason, I’m unable to swim.”

“Helpless,” Sin repeated.

“I can’t call for help if I’m drowning because no one will hear me. I can’t call for help if I’m falling because what can they do?” She gazed at the bandages on her forearm. “I’m nothing but a corpse no matter what I do.”

“I can understand that.”

Riven looked to him. “What about you? What does Lee Sin, master of the art of unarmed combat, have to fear?”

“Much more than you seem to think,” he retorted with a cool indifference impressive to Riven.

“Like what?”

“The dark.”

“Oh.” Riven faltered, and she figured Sin didn’t need to see to know there was regret. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

But Sin chuckled. “It is not dark behind this blindfold; there is no need for apology.”

Riven’s conscience eased somewhat.

“If anything,” Sin continued, “Blindness has been a blessing. Now, the only difference between dark and light is that dark is colder than light. And I have never feared the cold.”

Riven frowned. “Are you suggesting something?”

“Something along the lines of a… ‘silver lining’ to everything is how I believe the expression goes.”

Riven snorted and shook her head, stared at the wall. “Don’t start that with me, Sin.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s false,” she said through gritted teeth.

“And you know this after only twenty-two years of life? A mere quarter of your journey and you are a master of what is true and what is false?”

Her eyes alight with blood red fire, very awake and very alive, she whipped her head toward him, jaw clenched. “What do _you_ know of me?” she asked seething. “ _You_ don’t know me at all.”

“No, I do not,” he said. “You rarely speak about yourself.”

“Then you have no idea what I’ve done. Where I’ve been, who I’ve killed,” and she turned away.

“Enlighten me.”

Silence while she composed herself, but she was fraying at the edges and she hadn’t any thread to fix it, so she let the twine unwind. Bitter and unwilling to look him in the eye, she looked to the door. “They’re my fault.”

“Who?”

“The refugees.”

“One person is hardly-.”

“Do you remember the day Ionia first came under siege?” She was looking at him now, into the jewel over his blindfold.

“Four years ago… Yes, I remember.”

“Where were you?”

Sin breathed. “I believe I was instilling principle in a troublesome young boy. Where were you?”

“I was marching up the sand to slaughter some Ionian pigs.”

“You were part of the invasion force?”

“No, Sin. I _was_ the invasion force,” but Sin didn’t understand, cocking his head forward and to the side. She glanced over to her satchel on the floor beside her and snatched up her shoulder guard. She plunked on the ground before him.

“See there?” she said, pointing toward the inscription.

He took the piece into his hands and fingered the metal. She watched him inspect the guard, his hands trailing over every bit. “I feel faint traces of paint, but I cannot see the image the paint creates.”

She retrieved her piece, mildly frustrated. “I’m a Commander, Sin.” Then, after a moment, she corrected, “I _was_ a Commander.”

Sin said nothing, just waited in silence.

“ _I_ was the invasion force.”

“Certainly not you alone?” he asked.

“No, but I gave the orders. Do you know what my first target was, Sin?”

He didn’t, Riven knew he didn’t, so she continued bitterly.

“A fishing village. Of all the places…” She couldn’t look at him, too ashamed to even face him, so she looked at the wall. But that didn’t help, because she could still see their expressions swimming in the moonlight, so she clamped her eyes shut. “I burned it to the ground. I killed everyone, then I burned families alive in their homes.”

Sin was quiet, listening fastidiously.

“There are no prison camps, Sin.”

Sin sounded genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the prison camps are a lie. A diplomatic lie,” Riven explained.

Sin shifted uneasily. “Then what are they?”

“Nothing. Military outposts, I assume.”

“Where do they keep the-?” Sin paused, and he blanched. Almost unnoticeable in the darkness, but Riven could hear it in his voice. “Oh.”

Riven focused on breathing, fingernails scoring into her shoulders because she swore she could hear the screaming and the crying.

“Genocide,” she whispered. Whispered because she hoped vainly that Sin hadn’t heard her. “I furthered genocide all in hopes of some fake promotion”

Riven pretended the details were unclear, lost to an adrenaline high. People tended to think that was less strange than the truth. That she remembered. She remembered every last detail.

She remembered every swing of her blade, could probably count how many and what type if she wanted to. She remembered the villagers, the short woman with laugh lines on her cheeks, the tall man with the sharp nose and the inquisitive eyes, the man with the faint scar running from his quivering lip to his chin. She remembered the ache in her wrist from sleeping on it awkwardly, and the strand of hair that wouldn’t stay out of her vision.

Some nights were drowning, some nights were falling, but the worst were the nights of memories.

“They’re my fault.”

Sin said nothing.

“I started all of this. I pushed them from their homes. I killed their relatives.” Her voice was soft, like the breeze that brushed her loose hair into her eyes. “They’re here because of me. The monastery’s food supply dwindles under the weight of so many refugees because I forced them into an exodus.”

“I understand their hatred of me, Sin. Share it, even.” Riven glared, face burning in shame. “I started this war, and there’s not a damn thing I can do for them.”

“You feel helpless?” Sin asked.

Riven buried her eyes into her forearms. “Completely.”

No response from Sin, but she preferred it that way.

When she spoke, her voice was quieter than she’d intended. “I offered my room- for the refugees- but the staff assured me there was plenty space. How long until that changes?”

Sin was still quiet, either unsure of what to say, or still just listening. His silence was an answer in itself.

“I give it a year.”

The din from the kitchen died down, replaced by the whistle of wind through the willow trees and the trickle of streams through the garden. A lovely night, no doubt.

“I am confused,” Sin said suddenly, and Riven looked over at him.

“What about?”

“You would give your cot away to a refugee?”

Riven frowned. “Of course. It’s the least I can do.”

Sin gestured to her with an open palm. “But there is already a refugee here.”

Riven snorted. “I’m not a refugee, I’m-.”

“A woman who has lost her home because of war,” Sin interjected. “That sounds very familiar, would you agree?”

“-an exile,” Riven finished glumly. “Siphoning food and valuable materials while I lay here and bleed you dry. Like a leech.”

“You are not a leech, Riven,” Sin said, an adamant edge to his words.

She huffed and glared at him. “Then what am I, Sin?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she already knew the words would be lies. She shook her head and looked away. “I came for atonement. I came for peace and to help anyone I can, and instead I’m your punching bag from dawn to dusk.”

Despair began clawing its way into her chest, and she fought it valiantly because she knew she would lose if despair were to set in. She’d be no use to anyone, then. But the odds were bleak, and though she grit her teeth and scratched her nails down her shoulders and clamped her eyes shut and thought of the good times before the world began to crumble, she was no match for despair this round.

If Lee Sin couldn’t help her, then who could?

“You do show progress.”

Riven sniffed, horrified that she’d let herself reveal so much in front of someone else. “What?”

“You assume atonement is painless.”

She was about to say something, but he didn’t allow her to finish.

“It is not a question. A common misconception, I assure you that you are not the first to think this.” He leaned forward, hands clasped. “Two years is not sufficient time.”

“Then what is sufficient time?”

He leaned back and inhaled through his nose, and Riven knew she wouldn’t like the answer.  

“Some as short as five years, and others take decades.”

Riven rubbed her face.

“Atonement is not simple or easy. There is good reason why so few find it.”

Decades. It could take decades. She calculated the reward, if it was worth the effort to even attempt. Hana invaded her thoughts, and Riven realized that if she didn’t do this for herself, Hana would forever invade her dreams as well.

“Alright.” She nodded. “Alright. Just- how long until the nightmares stop?”

She hated how feeble she sounded, how weak she appeared here in her underwear with dried tears on her cheeks, but she needed to know. She needed a respite, somewhere to hide when the real world was too much to handle.

Sin didn’t hesitate.

“Give it a year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for all the support! I'll see you next chapter!


	10. The Blackness between Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter before a week has even passed. Please enjoy!

**7 Years Ago**

Riven was in bad shape.

Her shins were sensitive from battering a hard target without restraint, without relent. Her thighs burned from exertion, and her knees were raw from scrabbling desperately on the mat despite the loose pants she wore. Her abdomen was sore from abuse, and from clenching to prevent further abuse. Her knuckles bled, scarlet dripping down her palms and soaking the white bandages that slithered around her arms and up into the short-sleeved shirt that protected the burns on her back from chaffing against anything painful.

She was fairly certain she’d broken a rib.

And her face… she preferred not to think about her face, because though she was never too concerned with appearances, she didn’t think her bloody lip and her black eye and a score of other bruises and marks would be easy to behold.

But Sin didn’t look any better, limping from a solid blow to the outside of his knee, drenched in sweat, heaving for a breath. He also nursed a bloody nose, lending an airy, nasally lilt to his soft tune he murmured so, so slowly.

Sin stalked around the edge of the mat, circling, facing her all the while because the days had long past where he could simply stand in one spot and listen for the attack. Riven was too fast, too strong for him to practice vanity for the sake of spicing things up. So he moved, like a panther stalking its prey. And Riven moved too, guard at her injured rib, footsteps so silent Sin was the only man around who could hear her.

Riven noticed his intentions; he moved so the afternoon sun low in the sky would impair her vision and bring her down to his level. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

She cut him off, advancing under the guise of attacking, and though he did flinch and retreat two steps, he ultimately stood his ground. Riven would need to fight for his position, or else she’d be forced to contend with the sun blinding her for the rest of the afternoon.

She closed in and both readied for a bout.

His posture was drawn in and cautious. Defensive, so Riven needn’t worry about a preemptive strike. He was twitchy, however, his hands flinching slightly every time Riven shifted. He would try to punish whatever attack Riven initiated.

So she feinted in the hopes that it would draw him out of his shell, because when Lee Sin didn’t want her to hit him, she wouldn’t hit him no matter how hard so she swung.

It was a good feint, a jab with her left aimed at irritating his nose, and he reacted as she’d predicted. His hand darted out to grab her wrist, but she whipped it back and he was stuck in the transition from offense to defense.

Riven planted her right foot into the mat, coiled, and released a staggeringly powerful roundhouse with her left leg. The timing was excellent; Sin was just recovering when her shin smacked into his jaw and he staggered away.

She’d won the right to sight this time, and she pushed her advantage, closing in for more damage.

But Sin twisted, fists ready to punch, and she’d realized she’d fallen for it.

His right jab hit her square in the nose, her face stinging, her eyes tearing up. She raised her guard to protect her fragile face, but she exposed her lower torso in doing so. Riven realized too late that that was his intention.

His right fist powered into her stomach, and though she curled up and clenched, it still hit with enough force to squeeze a grunt from her. The he reached out and snaked his fingers around the back of her neck in an iron grip and brought her forward where he could use his knees.

His left leg coiled, and then he struck, aiming for her abdomen, but Riven put all her strength into slamming her palms down on it and stopping it cold. She let him try to knee her once more and she blocked it again, then she used her strength to overpower him.

She threw her arms upwards, displacing his and reversing the clinch so that now it was Riven’s fingers clutching Sin’s neck, and she hammered away at his core because she was too strong for him to possibly block. Once, twice, three times her knee sailed into his stomach and once, twice, thrice, three times did he receive the full blow, grunting with increasing volume.

But she knew he wouldn’t allow such a one-sided beat down and that he was planning a counterattack, so rather than wait around for him to turn the tides, she acted. She ceased the onslaught, cemented her position, loosened her grip on his neck, and struck with her head.

Her forehead cracked against his and he stumbled backwards. She didn’t follow because there was too much enthusiasm in his daze, and when he realized she wouldn’t succumb to another surprise attack, he righted himself instantly.

Riven assessed his condition: his breath seemed more difficult for him to catch, and he was massaging his jaw with his hand. He was circling, or trying to, because Riven was stationary at the edge of the mat, so he had to change directions every so often. He still limped.

The breeze arrived, conjured from the gardens down below, carrying their scents of cherry blossoms and spring flowers and fresh cut grass. She reveled in the wind and the breeze and the way it swirled her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. It brought her peace of mind, and distracted her from her injuries.

She could win this. She’d done it before, twice in the last week. Barely, but she’d done it nonetheless.

Sin approached, and Riven decided she didn’t wish to be a punching bag, and she advanced as well.

His first strike was an experimental jab, and she swatted it away. A pause while they waited for the other to strike. Then, a flurry of movement.

Sin threw another jab and she swatted that one down, but he followed it up with a kick to her knee. She was ready and it glanced off, threw a punch at his face but he ducked low and his fist sailed into her stomach. She grunted, bent over to invite attack, and when he stood to strike her jaw with his elbow, she reached out and grabbed his arm.

She used his upward momentum against him; his arm firmly gripped by the wrist, she spun around, pulled his arm over her shoulder, and threw him over her back into the mat. A thud when he landed abruptly, and he rolled away.

But Riven wanted Sin on the ground where she could manage him, _needed_ him on the ground if she was going to win this, so as he pushed himself up, she stepped in and kicked out his injured leg. He grimaced and landed on his ass, and Riven kicked at his face.

He dodged backwards, and Riven stepped forward and tried again but he dodged away again. She tried a third time, and he dodged backwards again.

But it was a feint, and while he was sitting back up, she hopped to her other leg and sent her heel into his face. It collided with a smack, and though dazed mildly, he rolling backwards and onto his feet.

Riven charged forward and swung a hard left, to which Sin easily ducked under, but that was the intention. Riven rode the momentum, spinning all the way around until her right calf struck his injured leg in an effective leg sweep. Maybe if his knees were still in acceptable condition, he would’ve been able to stand his ground.

However, none of him was in pristine condition, and he tumbled to the floor once more, on his back and vulnerable.

She leaned down with a punch aimed at his nose, but he rolled away and it thudded harmlessly against the mat. She turned her head toward Sin, and his heel collided with her face. There was little power behind it, just a distraction so he could scramble to his feet, but suddenness of it shocked her.

It shocked her so much, she wildly charged him as he regained his footing; he was halfway up when she tackled him back to the floor.

Riven heard him wheeze as the breath was knocked out of him, but even in his daze he had the sense to lock his legs around her waist to try to prevent any further damage.

Because Sin was grappling on the floor with Riven. Someone with almost twice his size and more than twice his strength. He was done for if he couldn’t wriggle his way out of this. Both knew it.

So Riven fought like hell to keep him on the ground, keep him under her and in her grasp, because now she really could beat him. And Sin struggled to keep her where she was, but Riven was both surprisingly flexible and surprisingly clever.

He rolled them over so he was on top, but Riven kept them rolling until he was on bottom. She released him, only slightly, only enough for him to think he was free.

Then, when he’d scrabbled out from under her and sat up, she tackled him again. But the hold was different this time; his neck was caught in the crook between her head and her shoulder, and the floor. When she was certain the positioning was correct, she pressed downward.

He wriggled harder when he realized what was happening; an improvised chokehold. His carotid artery was cinched on her neck and her shoulder, and he would pass out if he didn’t escape soon.

Riven just pressed while he squirmed, listening to the decrescendo of his breathing, noticing how the fight was gradually leaving. Just a little bit longer…

But then Sin found her ribs.

The first blow took her by surprise; not the fact that he’d struck her, but by just how much it hurt. She grit her teeth and endured.

But then the second punch to the ribs collided, and she yelped.

Then the third. It was weaker than the others, but strong enough to tense her muscles, to curl her up and push harder at Sin’s neck. She could do this, just a little longer.

The fourth hit, and it was definitely weaker, but she was seeing flashes of white, and the promises of victory seemed lesser an incentive as the abuse continued.

Then the fifth, and she growled, squeezing at Sin’s torso like a constricting snake. So close, Riven was so close…

Then the sixth collided, and something popped, an explosion of pain too great to ignore, and she had to pull away because now her ribs were actually broken. And Sin wriggled away.

But he couldn’t, because she’d furiously pinned him to the floor with her hand, because victory was too damn close to give up, because Riven was fuming. Because Riven had drawn her fist back and punched him in the face with all her power, with all her fury, with all her body bearing down on him in this one precision strike.

It should’ve killed him. It would’ve killed anyone else, would’ve caved their skull in like a war club to a pumpkin, but this was Lee Sin. Master of the martial arts, the blind monk of Hirana Monastery. The man who could splinter great oaks with his fists, great stone with his feet.

No, Riven did not kill Lee Sin.

But she broke his nose, bounced his head against the floor, and reintroduced him to the swimming sensations lapping at the edges of his consciousness.

Riven coiled to punch again, but a noise invaded the ringing in her ears; something quick and fast, rapping against a solid object. She glanced over.

Lee Sin was tapping out.

She breathed. She clambered off him and breathed. Elbows on her knees, fingers carding through her sweaty, stringy hair, she sat beside him and breathed, even though it was agony in her lung to do so. She examined the sleeve of bandages up her left arm, and did the same to the other sleeve. The bandages hidden beneath her t-shirt felt intact, so Riven called it all a double victory.

Sin sat up and shook his head until he’d cleared all the extraneous noise from his ears.

Riven watched him as he placed a hand on either side of his nose, and promptly reset the cartilage. He sighed.

“Are you alright?” Riven asked, a concerned frown gracing her bruised face. “I was… captivated in the moment there at the end.”

“My nose is broken, my jaw may be fractured, and my knee is hyperextended. Everything considered,” he thoughtfully tilted his head to the sky, “I am doing quite well.”

Riven nodded absently. “Good fight.”

“Yes,” Sin said, stretching his shoulder, “Good fight.”

“Do you need aid walking?”

“No, I will be fine.” But when he stood, he wobbled, and Riven was already slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps a little,” he admitted.

“Where to?” she grunted.

“The kitchen,” he said. “I smell supper.”

 

**ooooo**

 

Apparently, there were such things as fake balconies. Riven had never heard of one, much less seen one before arriving at Hirana. Stylistic elements, as she’d been told. Something to look pretty, something without function.

She’d frowned when she’d heard that. What use was a balcony if there was no way to enjoy the view?

She’d climbed to one of them late one afternoon, leaping the walls in a blustery gust of wind, scaling the rooves until she’d arrived at a very specific balcony on the western face of the main tower. West so she could watch the sunset, the highest up because she liked the quiet.

She’d escaped there after supper, disappeared in the fuchsia that melted into a royal violet. Then to an intense, angry red she could sympathize with, and maybe it was just her, maybe it was wishful thinking, but that fury lingered the longest after the last tip of the sun dipped below the horizon.

Riven closed her eyes and inhaled the orchards and the flower gardens and the traces of saltwater from the not-too-distant sea. Calming. Enrapturing. Somewhere to escape to.

A creak in the boards betrayed someone else’s presence.

“Do you mind if I join?” Sin asked.

Riven shook her head.

He seated himself beside her, facing the sunset. They witnessed the transition from dusk to night with silence, noting the splash of color where the sun had been quenched by a distant ocean.

“How are you?” Sin asked.

“Satisfied,” Riven said, memories of a spicy noodle dish dancing on her tongue.

“But how _are_ you?”

Riven didn’t answer or turn her head, but she knew Sin was nodding, knew he’d detected the dreamcatcher pinned to the railing just before her. Desperate times called for desperate measures, even measures she didn’t believe in.

“I see.”

Riven breathed some more, easier now that her ribs were set and tended to by the monastery’s miracle worker. She liked to think the air up here was fresher, freer from agents of disease.

“The nightmares won’t go away,” she said.

The chirp of the crickets was his answer.

“It’s been a year, and the nightmares still won’t go away.” She breathed to control her temper. “Why did you lie?”

“I did not lie.”

“You said that a year would-.”

“I told you,” Sin corrected sternly, “to give it a year. We never spoke about what would happen when that date would return to us.”

Riven remained stubbornly silent.

“And you may recall that I also said that these things take time. Decades, perhaps.”

She carded her fingers through her hair. “I don’t have decades, Sin. When Noxus wins this war-.”

“ _If_ ,” Sin said. “ _If_ Noxus wins this war.”

“Alright. _If_ Noxus wins this war…” Riven looked to the far reaches of the horizon, where her home was, hoping to see a glimpse of the black brick and the bonfires she’d loved. “… And when they find I’m alive- and they will find out I’m alive- they will send someone for me.”

“An assassin?” he asked.

“No. No, it will be a messenger. A pawn, to see what I do with it. And when I tell him I want no part of the Noxus Swain envisions, he will run back to High Command.” She quieted. “Then they will send the assassin.”

“And there is no way around this? No possibility that this High Command could forget about you?”

Riven shook her head. “I was a Commander. Not only that; I was the prime example of a true Noxian warrior. What message would it send when they discover I’m helping the enemy? No,” Riven glanced down, focusing on the dreamcatcher and the space beyond. “They’ll send someone to silence me.”

The stars were just beginning to peek out from their hiding places, a thin sprinkling of glitter across the blanket of night. The moon was nowhere to be seen, creeping up to spook them behind the monastery tower.

“Are you so sure of your fate?” Sin asked.

“Yes.” She remembered the tight leather and the sinister scarlet smile of Katarina. “Noxus employs only the best.”

“But you are stronger now. More dangerous. Surely, that counts for something?”

Riven thought about that. “It might. But even if I manage to slay the first, they will send someone better. And if I slay them, they will send someone better. The cycle will continue until they succeed in their mission.”

“Or until Noxus runs out of assassins,” Sin mused.

And Riven smiled, because that was a funny concept. “Noxus running out of assassins? The Shurima will run out of sand before Noxus runs out of assassins.” Her smile disappeared when reality struck, and her gaze dropped to her lap. “They won’t stop until I’m dead. It may be years down the line, once Noxus has recovered from their losses, but I will live a short life. I’m certain of it.”

Sin shifted uncomfortably. “I find your certainty of your death unnerving.”

Riven blew air from her nose. “Killing is unnerving, Sin. Psychopaths and murderers are unnerving, but this?” Riven shook her head. “This isn’t unnerving. It is simply being aware of the consequences of my actions.”

The darkness encroached the land before her, swallowing everything regardless of size, the doom of the world of light imminent.

She was quieter, more sensitive. “And I’d prefer my last years to not be plagued by nightmares. All I want is the gift of a restful sleep.” She looked to him. “Is that too much to ask?”

He didn’t speak, or budge. He sat there beside her, probably contemplating the night sky as she was, so she returned her gaze forward.

“There is a man,” Sin said.

“What kind of man?” she asked.

“A man that can help you… expedite the process,” he said, and she nodded. “He cannot rid you of your demons, but he can give you the tools to do so.”

“And how do you know this man is capable?” she asked.

“Firsthand experience,” he said, and she swiveled her frowning features toward him. To which he smiled a musing smile, “I was not always the collected man I am this day.”

“Who is he?” she asked, intrigued.

Sin looked to the far south. “His name… well, it is not in my place to give you his name.”

“Then how am I to know who to look for?” Riven asked impatiently.

“You will know him only as Master Yi.” He pointed in the direction where he looked to. “He resides in a dojo much like this one, though considerably smaller. I will have Hector draw you a map that you may retrieve in the morning.”

Riven was quiet at first, unsure how to respond. “Thank you.”

“It is my duty to help. There is no reason to thank me, though the gesture is appreciated.” He stood, and lent a hand for her to take.

She politely shook her head. “I’m going to sleep here tonight.” She scanned the sky. “Perhaps the stars will lend me some peace.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Do you require blankets? A pillow.”

“No, I’ll be just fine. Thank you.” He nodded, then turned to leave but she grabbed his hand and looked him where his eyes would be, had they not been covered. “And… thank you, Sin. For everything.”

He nodded. “My duty is to help. Goodnight, Riven.”

Then he was gone, and she was alone again. Alone with the sky.

She glanced to the dreamcatcher, then lay herself down, her hands clasped on her stomach. She looked to the stars.

Riven had always been a star. The attention was nice; everyone’s eye automatically focused on it, skipped over all the blackness and the nothingness to devote all their attention to her. But it wasn’t quite all the glamour and glitz they all said it was, because she was always worrying about another star shining brighter than she, always scared she might be washed out by another’s blinding gaze. And all the stars ultimately paled in comparison to the master of the sky and everything, the Moon.

She looked to the sky again, but at the blackness between stars, instead of the stars themselves, and wondered if anyone ever thought of it. At the space that filled the gaps, where the shining stars weren’t. The commoners, and the forgettable details. Where no matter what happened, no one would see, no one would care. Where lives were lived without anyone knowing, where everyone wouldn’t need to worry about shining brighter.

A world where Riven could’ve lived without the guilt of responsibility, because she’d never have had it.

As she closed her eyes, she realized it must be nice to be the blackness between stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope to see you all next chapter!


	11. An Ionian Walks into a Bar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the support! Y'all really have no idea how stoked I am reading through your comments!

**10 Years Ago**

 

She was tall. She was armed. She had a mop of ashen white hair and eyes the color of blood, but he knew these things already.

What he didn’t know was where she was going. Three years devoted to nothing but the hunt, and yet his prey eluded him almost entirely.

Scouts from the battle of Coeur Valley reported no survivors. There were plenty of corpses, though, enough to fill a small village, but that wasn’t where he stopped. Only an absolute certainty of her demise would end his hunt, so he put his ear to the rumor mill and listened like a cat with its ear to the ground.

Nothing about a Commander with a penchant for unusually large swords, so he reasoned if she _were_ alive, she couldn’t have returned to the front lines. The only other destination as to where a Noxian Commander could possibly go…

… Was to Noxus itself.

 

**ooooo**

 

In order to reach Noxus, she would’ve needed a boat, so he focused on that first. One of her own ships could’ve retrieved her from the aftermath, and if that were the case, he’d be left at a dead end.

But then he thought of the geography, and how Coeur Valley lay beyond the current front line. She couldn’t have simply retreated; she’d have to push through the whole Ionian counterattack to do that. She would’ve either waited for the main assault to reach her, which wouldn’t have happened because Noxian forces never advanced past the Placidium, or…

… She would’ve traveled to the nearest coast- the eastern shore- and from there, she would’ve sailed for Noxus.

 

**ooooo**

 

A village by the sea; that’s where he was now. This little town, cozy and unassuming, invited him in with open arms. Shanties dressed up in tapestries and strings of colored beads passed him by as we walked through the narrow allies, around crowded campfires cooking the catch of the day.

He arrived at the harbor, tucked away in a cove of breathtaking, blue splendor, and most importantly, brimming with ships fit to cross the Guardian.

He found the harbormaster in a shack by the docks, a stout, old sailor with eyes as green and deep as the sea. He asked his question, worried that several years was enough to clean the man’s memory of that day.

But the old harbormaster never forgot who sailed his seas and docked their ships in his harbor, and with wistful waves crashing in his eyes, the harbormaster supplied him with a curious bit of information on his target.

A tall, armed, white-haired woman had come to the village seeking intracontinental passage. She was impatient, and so jumpy she almost struck someone that approached her from behind.

He asked the harbormaster how he remembered someone so lucidly.

Because she was gravely injured, maybe even fatally so, and her sword was shattered, as if it were once larger.

And she was not seeking passage to Noxus; her destination was the Freljord.

He frowned. Didn’t all rats nest in the same den? Why the Freljord?

The harbormaster didn’t know, but the old man did know she found someone willing to take her: an old fishing trawler with a small crew that didn’t ask questions.

 

**ooooo**

 

The Freljord was a hellish place. The sky was always overcast, grey swabs of cotton soaking all the sunlight of day, and a wretched blizzard eternally plagued the entire north. The water wore a thick coat of ice, and the ship he sailed on had to install icebreakers on the bow halfway through their journey.

Needless to say that when he first set foot on the dock slippery with ice, his first impressions had been soured.

Until he saw the stone behemoths that were the fabled Freljord castles of old, huge in every aspect, their size amplified by the sheet of snow covering everything. He wasn’t here to admire the architecture, though; he was here to find someone, and he decided that this dock’s harbormaster, a woman bigger and rounder than any man he’d come across, was a good place to start.

But flipping through years’ worth of records, they discovered a terrible truth: the trawler had never arrived at its destination. Raided by pirates sanctioned by Noxus, the little vessel had its sails clipped and its crew either slaughtered or sent adrift on their broken ship, where it was caught by an icy gale and slammed against the northern edge of the Piltovian peninsula.

He set out immediately, wrapping himself in as many rawhide cloaks his meager stash of coin could buy, and trekked for the point of the crash.

A week of foot travel through frozen tundras later, and he was standing at the edge of a cliff, the snowy wind battering him like it was trying to throw him over the steep drop to the craggy rocks below.

He could see it from here, the pathetic excuse for a boat shipwrecked years ago on that cold shore; no one could’ve survived, and even if they had, the abysmal temperatures of the Freljord would’ve frozen anyone to death in a matter of minutes.

However, when he climbed down with a rope and inspected the corpses preserved in ice, he did not find a body matching her description. She could be at sea, food for fish at the bottom of the ocean, but he couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t believe that the universe would be so cruel as to deny him his revenge.

So he turned and grabbed hold of the rope, climbed all the way up the jagged cliff face, and trudged through snow back to the harbor town. He searched every crevice of that town, every dark corner, every nook and cranny, and when the harbor town was gutted of possibilities, he’d headed south, hitching a ride on a wagon caravan destined for the capital city.

And the castles there stood even higher than the harbor town, but he supposed that was partially due to the fact that most of the city was built on the mountain slopes. The incline was steep, so steep that the roads winded like a snake in order to be traversable, and while he sat in the rear of the wagon with his cloaks around him, he thought of where to start in such a colossal city.

A tall, white-haired woman described a third of the population, and there were so many dark alleys one could conceal themselves in.

And after a year of searching the alleys lit sporadically by torchlight, a year of questioning the population swaddled in fur coats, a year of frostbite in his soul, he could not find her. That didn’t surprise him; he hadn’t yet explored a fraction of the city, and so, desperate for a lead, he’d made his way to the royal castle where the Barbarian King and the Avarosan Queen sat upon their thrones.

But on his way to request an audience, he met the most unusual creature just before the drawbridge. A bear that spoke. A bear that stood on its hind legs. A bear wearing armor.

He struggled to speak, because Ionian was all he knew, but the bear raised a massive paw to silence him.

“I am the ambassador for the Kingdom of Freljord,” its voice was gruff and as sweeping as the snows across the open tundras. “I speak and write most languages known to man. What is your plight, Ionian?”

He told him his plight, how he was searching for a woman with eyes crimson like blood, a woman wrapped in bandages and hailing from Noxus. He expected to be shrugged off, because this was years ago, and in the midst of a political meltdown with the Wildclaw and Frostguard clans, how would the ambassador remember someone so insignificant when compared to possible war?

So he was surprised when the bear crossed its furry arms over its barrel chest and regarded him with suspicion.

“Why must you know of her whereabouts?”

He stumbled over his words, failing to come up with a believable answer.

But the bear must’ve thought he wasn’t a threat, because he opened up. Apparently, she had caused quite a clamor.

A woman matching his description had been found by the Royal Hunt wandering deliriously through the forests at the base of the mountain. A woman suffering two, healing stab wounds through the gut, burns all up her back and on her arms that were concealed by bandages, and severe frostbite to the toes, fingers, and both ears. The Hunt had brought her to the infirmary, where the castle healers nursed her to health.

Unfortunately for her, news of the Noxian invasion of Ionia reached the Freljord at about the time the woman was able to stand again.

The King wanted her to stay and fully recover, but the Queen wanted to avoid any political confrontations with the Demacians for harboring a Noxian fugitive. The woman left in the dead of night with coin donated by the King, and was never seen again.

“And this woman was Noxian? Tall, white hair, a broken blade, and eyes crimson like blood?” he asked.

“Yes,” and his giant, wet nose scrunched in distaste, “but I wouldn’t say her eyes were like blood.”

“How would you describe her eyes, then?”

“ _Haunted._ ”

 

**ooooo**

 

**7 Years Ago**

 

Kumungu. The jungles of Kumungu.

He’d consulted with the Freljord harbormaster once again, this time sifting through departures instead of arrivals, and lo and behold, there she was. A passenger on a boat to Kumungu.

But that couldn’t be.

Once a Noxian, always a Noxian, after all.

She should’ve sprinted for her homeland, not take to the farthest reaches of Runeterra. Kumungu was so far away from Noxus, there was even speculation about a camp for rogue Noxians-.

And then he knew. An instant realization at the railing as he stared at where _land ahoy!_ should be. Why she’d traveled to Freljord, the farthest north one can be from Noxus. Why she’d traveled to Kumungu, the farthest south one could be from Noxus. Why she’d been so jumpy at the Ionian harbor, why she’d left Freljord at the dead of night, where the risk of iceberg collision was highest.

She was running.

He didn’t know why, maybe _regret_ , maybe _fear_ of what she’d done, maybe something equally as piteous, but he didn’t care. He was getting somewhere now, because now, he knew her motivation.

She couldn’t run forever. A running animal left the most obvious trail, and he was a master tracker. He would find her in time.

Though for the time being, all he could do was watch the waves slosh against cannon portholes on the flank of the frigate, and the heavy armaments of the ship and the fact that every sailor aboard was now strapped with a weapon told him what he needed to know about the type of people he’d encounter, here.

Pirates. Poachers. Slavers. Not as terrible as Bilgewater, but then, no one was as terrible as Bilgewater.

He’d need to keep his blade at the ready regardless.

The harbor neared, and he gathered with the other passengers aboard the ship at the off ramp. No one rushed, but no one loitered, and soon he felt bare dirt beneath his feet.

The village covered little space, but the quarters were cramped, and when the quarters had become too cramped, they’d built upwards. There was a second level to every jungle-wood shack, sometimes a third, and clusters of rope bridges spanned the gaps between the higher stories. Like spiderwebs, and the wooden planks rumbled and rang like an out-of-tune xylophone whenever someone walked across them.

The air was hot and humid despite the total shade cast by the jungle around them, sweat sheening over his lean muscles. He slapped a mosquito on his cheek, and waved at the thick cloud of bugs that followed his steps, but he deemed it vain and persevered.

He needed a place to start, but between the massive throngs of grimy, shirtless men and the glares he received from hunters sharpening machetes, he hadn’t a clue. Her skin tone was dark enough to blend in with the locals, but her white head of hair would give her away.

Not that he didn’t stick out, with his pasty skin and his blue attire. His stomach grumbled, but from the skin-and-bones body composition of everyone within eyesight, hunger would fit in just fine.

He was much too polite as he shuffled through the alleys where the looks they gave him suggested something less-than-legal was happening, was much too wary when walking under the rope bridges for fear of an aerial attack. And apparently, he was much too white when he wandered by merchant tents and stands, because the hawkers plagued him worse than the clouds of gnats.

Throughout his brief tour, he saw no Noxians. They’d be further into the jungle, if they truly wished to hide from something as far-reaching as Noxus. He needed to know where, though, so he visited the only person he could trust.

The barkeep at the nearest “tavern” was tending to customers down the line when he took up a stool at the bar. When the barkeep met him, a bald man with bulging muscles and skin noticeable lighter than the rest of the customers, the barkeep flashed a toothy grin.

“Oi! Thought I was the whitest bloke ‘ere. Guess you hold that ‘onor now.” The barkeep jerked his head at him. “What ya havin’?”

“Something… local.”

The barkeep grunted. “Ya got guts, I’ll give ya that.” Then the barkeep snatched a few bottles and prepared something very brown and very pungent. Kicked like a mule, but not bad, all-in-all. He still preferred his Ionian wines over anything the barkeep could prepare, but he wished to remain somewhat inconspicuous.

The barkeep turned to walk to a new customer, but he reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s arm before he left.

“Oi! Wot the-!”

“I know this place has a haven for runaway Noxians. Where is it?”

The barkeep’s face curled in on itself. “The fuck ya want with Noxians?”

“Got a score to settle. Nothing out of the ordinary around here, I’d imagine.”

The barkeep was hesitant, but the group of men down the line packed machetes and looked the type to use them, and when the barkeep looked at the hand on his shoulder, he realized with exasperation that he’d have to cough it up.

The barkeep leaned in close, head low, and he mirrored him. “I didn’t tell ya this, alright?”

“Course not.”

“Down at the docks- ya know where the docks are? Not the harbor, but the-?”

“Yeah, yeah, the docks at the river. What about them?”

“Third man down the left, you tell ‘em you want passage to ‘Al’kun.”

“Al’kun?”

The barkeep shook his head rigorously. “No, ‘ _Al_ ’kun.”

He frowned, but then his face lit up. “Oh, you mean _Hal_ ’kun?”

“Yea,” and the barkeep leaned in further, gesturing with his hand, “Third man down the left, you tell ‘em ya want passage to ‘Al’kun. Urr Nox for safehaven, or some other word, don’t give much of a damn about the details, never did.”

“Hal’kun,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

As he stood to leave, the barkeep added, “Oi! You’ll require a hefty bit o’ coin on top of it all.” The barkeep shrugged, “Ya know what they say; heaven ain’t cheap.”

He doubted anything in this jungle came close to a heaven, but he was grateful for the tip nonetheless. He made his way toward the river docks.

The jungle itself was too dense to efficiently travel through, never mind the vicious, often venomous, wildlife, and thus, the safest method of travel was by raft through the rivers that slithered all throughout the land of Kumungu. The docks were easy enough to find, with several different ‘companies’ to choose from, but the third man down the left was all he was interested in.

He said the word, and the man nodded curtly, then extended an open palm. He compensated the man appropriately; he’d sold the cloaks on his back to a bazaar for quite a bit of coin, for Freljord furs were a luxury among the rich.

Then, without waiting for more customers, the man stepped into his moored boat and beckoned him aboard, and the moment he took a seat, the now-captain took the helm. The vessel was rectangular, the cabin placed at the bow of the ship and a single, wide bench running lengthwise down the center, with a green, tarp awning lending them coverage from what fell from above in a jungle.

The captain pulled a lever to start the engine, and they were off into the depths of the jungle.

While the engine droned on and the boat cut through the water too murky and green to see into, he watched for anyone tailing them on the bank of the river. The river stretched wide enough to ensure safe passage, but narrow enough that the impenetrable canopy never once broke apart through their leisurely journey, and the shade made spotting things that weren’t deceptive splotches of sunlight almost impossible.

He removed his weapon from its confines in his bedroll, and held it in his lap. He pulled the blade a few inches from the sheath, the polished metal gleaming even in the shade, and a cooling breeze whirled around his hunched figure.

The reflection intrigued him, because on the flawless flat of the blade, there was a man that looked an awful lot like Yasuo. Gaunter, maybe, more rugged and traveled.

But it couldn’t be; Yasuo was a man of honor. Of sacrifice and reputation, and he who looked into the reflection had none of these things.

Maybe one day, in the far future, he could be Yasuo again. When he’d recovered his honor, counted his sacrifices, and cleaned his reputation of filth, maybe he could wear that name again.

But today was not the future. And he was not Yasuo. He was…

He was Unforgiven.

The lurch of the boat brought him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see that they’d arrived.

His heart jerked when he saw the person that helped the captain tie the boat to the dock, but he calmed himself just as soon as he’d startled, because even though they had a white head of hair, were tall, and were dark like a Noxian, they were a man, and they were unarmed. When he stepped off the vessel and onto the docks, he realized the man was the only Noxian in the harbor.

This place was different than the harbor town. Quieter. Smaller. Easier on the nostrils. Surrounded on all sides by dense jungle, so little if any light ever reached the people below.

He took one step, and his stomach grumbled so ferociously, he couldn’t ignore his hunger any longer.

His eyes scanning for an acceptable establishment, the quality consistently failing his already-low standards, he noticed how the streets were wider, how the torches and the braziers looked foreign, and the strange lettering scratched into walls. Probably Noxian, he realized.

He also noticed the Noxians roaming the streets, and, weirder still, how many of them directly avoided him and his gaze.

There was another bar that caught his eye, and when he ambled through the saloon doors, there were few other customers, so he took a seat at the bar at the back of the room. A woman, dark as night, strolled to him and perched an elbow on the table.

Her words were gibberish, but he understood the meaning from her narrowed eyes and her cautious gait.

He tossed a few coins on the counter and pantomimed eating with a spoon from a bowl. Her eyes were hesitant to leave him, but she picked the coin from the counter and walked to the kitchen. While he waited, he glanced around at his company.

An unconscious drunk at the other end of the bar. A hunter with his weapons on the table. A few scattered individuals, no one noteworthy.

And three Noxians around a square table. Speaking in Ionian.

 

**ooooo**

 

The man with the scar rubbed his temples, squeezing his crimson eyes shut. Being forced to listen to Skippy run his mouth should be a war crime, as far as he was concerned. And he wanted to say his annoyance wasn’t because of Skippy’s lisp, or his high, nasally voice, or how he spoke so fast, no one had a single, fucking clue what he was saying. He wanted to say it wasn’t those things, because those were things Skippy couldn’t change.

Besides; Skippy’d been through the ringer, just like he and Hugo. He deserved to throw in his two cents every once in a while.

But to the Goddesses above, he could only take so much of it.

“Skippy,” he said, and the short man with the dent in his bald head stopped and looked at him.

“Yeah, Chuck?” he asked, eyes wide and innocent.

Chuck had a few choice words for him, but they vanished when he noticed Skippy’s sincere curiosity. He sighed; he could never stay angry at Skippy.

“Chuck?” Skippy said again.

“Just” Chuck waved his hand, “Shut it.”

“Alright, Chuck,” and Skippy nodded emphatically, and if Chuck hadn’t known him, he’d think Skippy was being sarcastic. “I can do that, Chuck.” He clamped his lips shut.

The trace of a smile flickered over Hugo’s broad lips lost in a gnarly forest of a beard. Hugo glanced across the table at Chuck, and Chuck rolled eyes at the image of Skippy with his eyes closed and his cheeks puffed like he was a squirrel holding nuts.

“Skippy?” Chuck said.

Skippy opened a single eye.

“You can breathe, Skippy.”

All the air left Skippy’s mouth in a whoosh, and Hugo chuckled softly, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. But Hugo was so large, the entire table tremored, and Chuck tapped the hardwood impatiently.

Hugo noticed and leaned in, and Skippy did the same.

Chuck gestured to Hugo. “Payday is Friday, yeah?”

Hugo nodded. “Fifty pieces each.” His brow furrowed, “Make that fifty for you and I. Skippy only gets forty after that business with the-.”

“Alright, alright,” Chuck said, nodding to cut him off. “As long as you and I get paid, we’ll have enough to leave port in three days.”

“Then we take a boat to the harbor and find someone willin’ to take us to Bandle City, yeah?” Hugo asked.

“Then we get to the harbor and find someone willin’ to take us to Bandle City,” Chuck said.

Skippy’s eyes widened with glee. “The place with the teddy bears?”

“Yeah, the place with the teddy bears.” Then Chuck frowned and shook his head. “And they ain’t teddy bears. They’re Yordles.”

Skippy opened his mouth, but someone caught his eye, and he scooted closer to Chuck. “Hey, Chuck,” he whispered, “That guy up there’s givin’ us awful funny looks.”

The man was Ionian, and Chuck’s mouth dried because he’d thought no one could understand their words. The man averted his gaze when all three occupants of the table looked his way.

Speaking in Urr Nox now, Chuck motioned his friends in further and whispered “He’s Ionian. Watch what you say.”

“Alright, Chuck,” Skippy said, and Hugo just nodded.

They discussed their plans with caution and soft voices, an occasionally glance to the bar. Chuck had his sword in its sheath slung over the back of his chair, and Hugo’s dagger hung from the big man’s hip. He hoped they wouldn’t have to use them, but not every Ionian they’d encountered had greeted them with open arms.

The man stood, and Chuck watched him from the corner of his eye as he leisurely strolled to their table. He clutched his bedroll in one hand, but it was obviously concealing something. He stopped at the open end of their table, and eyeballed them silently.

Chuck fidgeted the spoon in his empty bowl while the man looked them over.

“So I heard you speaking Ionian,” the man said suddenly.

Chuck slowly looked up, up to his eyes that stared at him. Chuck sheepishly shook his head.

The man looked to Skippy.

Skippy ducked his head, mumbling nonsense.

The man looked to Hugo.

Hugo stared at his plate, rolled his neck.

Unconvinced, he squinted his eyes. “Uh-huh…”

Then he turned, picked up a chair behind him, turned back around and dropped it.

The chair exploded, a green fireball wafting into the dark, smoky skies. The blast was deafening, and when he covered his ears with his hand, they came away wet with blood.

A scream, a piercing, gargled scream to his left, and when he looked to the source, he saw with wide eyes that Rueben had been impaled by an Ionian pike. He sprinted to him, to save him from the Ionian warrior with the pike, and all around him his company died.

Throats slashed open, stomachs sliced and diced until their intestines spilled from their gut, but Chuck only focused on Rueben, on not slipping on the grass wet with so much blood. His heart pounded and his legs ached and his face covered in blood and mud and he was going to puke from the smell of death and burning corpses, but he had to get to Rueben.

But he was too late, and Rueben turned and looked at him as the Ionian impaled him again. Reached to him with one hand while the other grasped desperately at the pike through his stomach, and Chuck screamed.

And then the ground beneath him exploded, and like a ragdoll, he flew through the air and landed on his back. Landed in a pile of bodies while the flecks of grass and dirt and mud spattered his face, and when he looked down, his foot was gone.

His foot was gone. He couldn’t breathe because his foot was gone.

His foot was gone, and Rueben was dead.

His foot was gone, Rueben was dead, and the man with the pike was going to kill him now. Walking through the smoke and the fire and the clang of blades to kill him. The Ionian poised his weapon to kill.

But then Hugo barreled in from the right and stepped between them, and the Ionian’s spear lodged in Hugo’s shield. Then Hugo punched the Ionian because his sword was gone, and the man’s neck crunched and he fell.

Then Hugo ran to him.

“Chuck! Chuck, get up, dammit!” But his foot was gone. His foot was gone and they killed Rueben, and through the haze of the smoke, Hugo saw that his foot was gone. “Aw fuck!”

Then Hugo threw his shield to the ground, grabbed Chuck by the leg and hoisted him over his shoulders.

“They killed him,” Chuck said as Hugo held his leg and his arm so he rested over both shoulders. “They killed Rueben…”

“I know, Chuck, I know!” Hugo shouted through grit teeth, straining under the weight.

His foot was gone. His foot was gone and Rueben was dead.

The world exploded around them as Hugo ran, and Chuck could only watch the dirt and the bodies pass by as he hung limply over Hugo’s shoulders. The clash of blades rang all around, the sea of screams drowning him.

“They killed him!” Chuck shouted.

“It’s gonna be okay, Chuck,” Hugo said calmly. The ground turned to pine needles and overgrowth and nothing, and Chuck couldn’t breathe because his foot was gone.

He couldn’t breathe because Rueben was dead and his foot was gone.

“It’s gonna be okay, Chuck,” Hugo said calmly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

_Nothing_ was okay. Rueben was dead and his foot was gone.

 

**ooooo**

 

Hugo put his hand on Chuck’s shoulder, and Skippy watched with terrible fascination. “It’s okay, Chuck,” Hugo said, gently shaking him.

And then Chuck snapped out of it, and Hugo sighed in relief because his friend’s panicked eyes and his white knuckles melted away. He quivered, staring at his plate, hands splayed on the table, and again, Hugo said calmly, “It’s okay, Chuck. It’s gonna be okay.”

The Ionian’s brow was quirked, and Hugo wanted to throttle him for banging his chair against the floor but he reigned in his anger and relaxed in his seat.

“Chuck doesn’t like loud noises,” Hugo explained.

“I thought you didn’t speak Ionian.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Hugo glanced at the bedroll beneath the table, wondering what he’d wrapped up.

“So how’d you fellas wind up here?”

Hugo’s bushy brow furrowed. “What kinda question is that?”

The Ionian nodded. “So you’re Noxian.”

“Nu-uh,” Skippy said instantly, and Hugo gave him a look to shut him up, but it was too late. The Ionian leaned over the table, curiosity piqued.

“You look pretty Noxian to me.”

“Well, we ain’t,” Hugo said bluntly.

The Ionian turned his head to stare at Hugo. “And how is that, exactly?”

“We ran,” Hugo said.

“Well it’s mighty brave of you to admit that,” the Ionian said sarcastically.

Hugo snorted, shook his head, and looked around the room. “Your eyes busted or somethin’? You see where we are?”

“All I see are a bunch of cowards.”

“Is it cowardly to admit you’re wrong?” Hugo asked.

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just narrowed his eyes at Hugo and fumbled with the bedroll in his lap.

“They said battle’d be glorious,” Chuck said absently, stirring his empty soup bowl with his spoon. “They said we’d be heroes fightin’ for the Homeland.” Chuck looked up. “You remember them, Hugo? Swain’s speeches?

Hugo hummed, and he felt like he was back in the streets of Noxus again, staring at the tower and chanting with the crowd. “‘Battles that’d put the whole Demacian campaign to shame,’” Hugo recalled. “I remember, Chuck. I remember.”

“It wasn’t,” said Chuck. “It fuckin’ wasn’t.”

“I thought Noxians _loved_ war,” the Ionian said.

“No,” and Chuck shook his head rigorously when the Ionian expressed disbelief. “Honest! We’re not! We’re not killers, are we, guys?” He frantically turned to Hugo, “We’re not killers, right, Hugo? Right?!”

Hugo shook his head. “We’re not killers, Chuck.”

“We’re not killers… No, we ain’t...”

The wind lightly blustered the saloon doors, and they creaked a steady rhythm to the tune of the clinking glasses as the bartended wiped them all down with a filthy rag and stowed them away beneath the counter.

“I’m looking for someone,” the Ionian said.

Hugo looked to Chuck because he was usually the one who handled the conversations, but he was busy with the bowl of nothing. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting Skippy negotiate.

“Alright. Maybe… we could help.” The Ionian watched him, face unreadable. “What does this person look like?”

“A woman,” he said, “Noxian. White hair. Eyes,” he nodded to Chuck, “like his.”

Hugo’s poker face was something of a legend; back in the day, the poker tables belonged to him, and any challengers soon discovered just how stoic he really was.

But Chuck?

Chuck was awful at poker, and the Ionian noticed how his eyes darted to Hugo halfway through the description.

“Seems your friend knows who I’m talking about.”

Hugo grunted, masterfully feigned a faintly amused smirk, and said, “You just described half the women of Noxus. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that.”

An irritated glare tried to break his resolve, but Hugo didn’t budge. Hugo stared him down, face of stone refusing to crumble. The Ionian hadn’t even scratched him, but Hugo realized his resilience was a mistake.

Because he turned to Skippy, who ducked away shyly and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Hugo bristled. “Now you leave Skippy out of this.”

The Ionian ignored him, and focused on Skippy. “This is important. Where is she? Have you seen her?”

“Leave him be!” Chuck said, reinvigorated.

“Please,” the Ionian said, and Hugo knew he was serious because that was the first courtesy he’d shown. “This is important-.”

“Get away from him, dammit!” Hugo said, teeth grit. “He’s a cripple! He’s got no idea what you’re talkin’ about!”

The Ionian leaned in close to Skippy with an unintentionally intimidating stare, and Skippy tried to lean away, but he reached out and wrapped his fingers around his arm and pulled him in. “This is important. This is a matter of life or death-.”

Hugo reached over, brow furrowed. “Let him go, dammit! No woman’s that important!”

The Ionian slammed the table, snarling, and Chuck yelped, thrown into another flashback. Then the Ionian stood, ignoring Chuck’s murmuring, and then he glowered at Hugo with a fire blazing in his eyes.

He jabbed a finger at Hugo, and he roared like a gale in a hurricane, “You know _nothing_ about what this woman has done! You know _nothing_ about his sacrifice!”

Hugo stood, hoping his size would make the lad back off, but it only seemed to infuriate him more. Skippy, bless his tender heart, was helping Chuck work through the visions and breathe again while the Ionian continued to holler in his face.

“You will _not_ insult his sacrifice! You have no idea what this woman did to him! You have no idea who this woman really is!”

And then his eyes narrowed, and his fingers clenched around his bedroll. “Or do you know about what she did to him? You fucking Noxian; of course you do.” The Ionian turned back to Skippy. “Where is she?! A location, a destination? Her fucking name; _anything_ at all?”

When Hugo grabbed his arm and pulled him away, everyone discovered what was in the bedroll.

 

**ooooo**

 

Skippy didn’t know what was going on. It didn’t make sense; Hugo was undefeatable! He was the origin of the myth of the Beast of Galrin, where a “monster” had slain an entire Noxian platoon with its bare hands! He’d taken a blade to the stomach and an entire quiver of arrows to his back and he’d kept swinging! It didn’t make sense that he died.

But when the Ionian had twisted around with a blade pulled from nowhere, Hugo had died. His head was staring at him now, rolled right onto Skippy’s plate and stopped just before him.

And now Skippy was trying to run from this place, but after the man had cut Chuck’s neck open, he’d blocked off his only exit, so he’d curled up into a ball on his chair and cried.

Squeezed his eyes shut and bawled with his hands over his ears while the man shouted at him, while Chuck twitched on the table and bled. Running to the only place he could always run to no matter the circumstances.

Hugo was dead. Chuck was dying.

Skippy didn’t want to die. That was why he’d sprinted from the battlefield, from the men with sharp sticks and shining swords and bow and arrows. They’d wanted him to die, but he hadn’t wanted to.

And to this day, to this very _moment_ , he still didn’t want to die.

The man was still hollering, still asking about the woman, but Skippy couldn’t hear him.

Hugo was dead. Chuck was dead.

And then, with snot running from his nose and tears pouring from his eyes, Skippy died too.

The steel was cold and painful in his chest, and when the icy freeze penetrated his heart, he frowned. He frowned because he couldn’t feel his toes or his fingers, and he was getting sleepy. Part of him knew he was dying, the part of him that had hidden in the recesses of his being that had been unaffected when the club had clocked him, but he didn’t panic.

Chuck always told him panicking never helped anything.

As he fell to the floor, he opened his eyes one last time. Through the fog, the man was stock still. Then he looked to his chest, down his arm, to his sword, and when he touched the blood dripping from the blade, he stumbled backwards. Into a chair, and he tripped and fell on his rump and Skippy tried to laugh, but he could only splutter.

He spluttered some more as the man scurried away, pushed himself frantically to his feet and bolted through the doors.

He swore he could hear Hugo laughing too as he slipped away into a deep, deep sleep.

 

**ooooo**

 

They were Noxian. They deserved it.

He was sprinting away toward the docks, but he was calm. He was collected and completely at peace with his decision.

His heart hammered through his chest, his hands trembled so bad, he almost dropped his blade, and his breath was impossible to catch, but he was calm. He knew what he was doing; they were Noxian. Noxians didn’t change. Noxians loved war and death. Noxians killed the fathers and the mothers and the children. Noxians killed Yone.

_She_ killed Yone.

They were protecting her, and because of that, they had it coming. They lied to his face, disrespected his sacrifices, and above all else, they were Noxian.

His heart hammered, his hands trembled, and he couldn’t breathe, but he was calm.

They were Noxian; they deserved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. See ya next chapter!


	12. Refuge in a Burning City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for being late in dropping the last chapter, I've uploaded another one to make amends with myself and you guys. Mostly myself. Enjoy!

**7 Years Ago**

 

Putrefying flesh and burnt ozone; that was something Riven had hoped to never smell again, but as she walked the paths through the village, the too-familiar scent assaulted her nostrils wherever she went. A victim of the Noxian chemical attacks. “Melters” she’d heard them called.

Riven must be lost. Maybe she’d read the map wrong, or Sin’s instructions were flawed, because a devastated village couldn’t be her destination. There was nothing alive here; everything that breathed had died long ago.

No building stood untouched, scorch marks razing through the cabins like a beast with flaming claws had made scratching poles of the timber walls and the thatched rooves. What glass there was had melted from intense heat and pooled into glittering, crystal puddles, and the alleys and the homes and the dead, grassy fields were covered by a blanket of ash.

And the bodies. The bodies burnt beyond recognition, limbs curled into themselves. They lined the singed, cobblestone streets, littered the narrow alleyways, and filled the air with the reek of death. Riven crouched at a group huddled in a corner of a once-cozy cottage drifting at the fringes of the town. A father wrapped his blackened, spindly arms around a mother and a child, their charred faces fearful, their toothy, lipless mouths open and screaming, their eyeless eye sockets deep and hollow.

She reached out and touched the child, fingers lightly dragging over the flaking flesh of his cheek. Soot clung to her fingertips when she pulled away and stood.

She’d seen too many dead children to cry, but she’d never see enough to stop and wonder ‘ _What if?_ ’

What if she’d refused that night? She would’ve died for certain, but how far could Noxus have pushed without her? Too far, but it would’ve saved a village or two. Hundreds of families spared if she’d just said, “No.”

Words were as powerful as an army, sometimes. Riven just wished she’d known that as she walked away, the splinters of ruined homes and the ashes of a dead village crunching beneath the soles of her sandals.

The sky was blue and clear, the only respite from a world of black and grey.

But then, when she rounded a corner, she glanced a splash of yellow. A man at the junction of two major streets, legs crossed and head bowed. Riven looked behind her and saw nothing suspicious, so she approached with light footsteps and a hand on the hilt of her blade.

He was of average height, and at first glance, he appeared skinny and malnourished but closer inspection revealed the lean muscle of his arms and his legs. His robes were silvery, his armor naught but shin guards, gauntlets, and pauldrons highlighted with a vibrant yellow, and his weapon quirked her brow when she first glimpsed it, because what kind of sword had a blade of glass?

But his did, and she could see right through the transparent blade to the sooty ground beneath it.

She stopped with a few strides still between them, and now she could hear him humming. A faint tune, one she’d heard before, and she recognized it as the song Sin mumbled during their spars. She absentmindedly hummed along with him, and when he heard, a smile spread slowly across his bowed head.

“He still knows the tune, eh?” he asked in perfect Urr Nox, the deathly silence broken by his soft-but-gruff voice.

“And what tune would that be?” she asked.

He looked up, and she saw his narrow face for the first time. His cheekbones were sharp, his brow bushy and his mane a luxurious, chestnut brown tied into a ponytail. His braided goatee dangled to his stomach, and when she looked to his eyes crinkled from smiling, she noticed one eye was an inquisitive blue and the other a royal magenta.

His smile was warm with hints of mischief at the corners of his mouth. “Why, it’s none other than the Minuet of the Astral Grove.”

“I’ve never heard of the Minuet of the Astral Grove.”

He sighed, and shook his head. “And you call yourself an Ionian.”

“I don’t believe I’ve claimed to be Ionian.”

He chuckled. “I know, I know.” He picked up his sword, and when he used it as cane to stand himself upright, Riven revised his approximate age. “Sin seems to think you’d make a good Ionian.”

She frowned, and said, “I don’t recall Sin travelling anywhere in the years I was with him, and I don’t recall seeing you there.”

“Lee is blind, yes?” he asked, and tapped his ear enigmatically. “Just as there is more than one way to see, there is more than one way to hear.”

She narrowed her eyes and stared, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Telepathy?

But before she arrived at a conclusion, a grin cracked, and he covered his mouth with his fist as he chuckled. “Sorry. That was a bad joke.” He whipped a piece of rolled parchment from his belt and said, “Hirana communicates by pigeon. You match the description enclosed within, though…” he stroked his beard thoughtfully and his eyes scanned her features, “… your eyes aren’t quite what I would describe as ‘red as blood.’”

“Then what do they look like?”

“Red like a rose,” he said after a moment, “a thorny exterior, but only to protect the flower inside.”

“Are you… flirting with me?”

“No, not at all.” He cocked his head to the side, scanning the side of her face. “And your hair is more like snow on a cold winter’s day than like ash.”

Riven’s lip twitched in annoyance. “Is that all?”

He looked her up and down one more time, then rested both hands on the pommel of his sword and said, “For now. I simply believe the connotations of Lee’s description are tad pessimistic. After all, words are powerful. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded.

He realized something, and shook his head at his expense. “Ah, where are my manners? Please, follow me.”

Riven hesitated. “I assume you’re Master Yi?”

“You could say so,” he said, and he strolled along at a pace that was easy for Riven to catch up to. But she stayed planted where she was.

“Are you or are you not the one they call Master Yi?” Riven said, her voice echoing down the street.

He paused and looked over his shoulder. “That’s what they call me, yes.” When she continued to stand stock still, he gazed to the sky, tapping his index on the pommel of his sword. “I can explain, if you’d like. But you must choose whether to trust me or not.”

“How can I trust a man when I don’t know his name?”

“Because I can kill you with the flick of my wrist,” he swiveled his head until his twinkling, mismatched eyes met hers, “and I haven’t yet.”

Riven’s hand tightened on the hilt of her blade. “Is that another bad joke?”

“Not at all.”

The deathly silence persisted while Riven decided what path to follow. The road to Master Yi was something of an unknown. The chance that his intentions were benign seemed just as high as the chance that he’d cut her down with that glass sword of his. He was an unknown variable, and Riven despised unknown variables. But when she looked to the road back…

There was no road back. She could return to the monastery, but they’d already determined Sin couldn’t help her anymore. The road back was an even wilder variable, one where she couldn’t see herself thriving in any way.

A chance of success with the man in yellow, or guaranteed failure in the untamed world.

The man didn’t react when Riven made way toward him, and they continued down the road side-by-side.

“Thank you for allowing me the opportunity,” he said, eyes forward and stance relaxed. “The corpses are good fun, but it gets lonely out here with no one else around.”

“I still can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“The corpse part was a joke.”

“And the loneliness?”

A mass of burnt wood and stone blocked the path ahead, and Yi led them through a doorway and into a house whose roof had collapsed. As they picked their way across a pile of broken wood, Yi said, “Not a joke.”

They emerged through a hole in the wall and continued down the alleys. “I can think of a few things you can do to remedy that.”

“Stop living among the corpses of a dead city?” he offered jokingly.

“Stop hiding behind a moniker and start giving your real name.”

His chuckle jounced his shoulders. “Unfortunately, I cannot do that.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

A log had fallen across their path, and both nimbly leapt over the obstacle. Yi grunted when he landed, leaning on his sword for support. “I’m too old for this shit,” he mumbled under his breath, then said aloud, “Because the name Master Yi has collected an abundance of tales across its many centuries of use.”

Riven frowned. “You’re centuries old?”

He laughed loudly, a cheerful guffaw that shook the ashes from the corpses. “I can only wish. If I am centuries old, then Lee would be too. And the last time I saw Lee, I don’t remember him having wrinkles.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“Words are powerful, Riven. Names, even more so. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes; you’ve already said this.”

“Because it’s important.” Yi turned a corner, and Riven noticed the distinct lack of corpses. There was still ash and destruction, and there were scorched silhouettes of people on the floor and on the walls, but there were no bodies. Yi glanced over at her. “No one fears a simple farm boy, someone who works the fields when the harvest rolls around. A monk in a monastery that reads from the holy book in his spare time. They do not quake in their boots in terror.”

He wagged his finger. “Now when the name Lee Sin arises, people listen. They think of the man that toppled armies with his bare fists. They think of the man that can bring the lost back from the abyss. The name inspires hope in his allies, and his enemies know he is a threat to be taken seriously. So as to ‘what am I saying,’ I’m saying that the one you know as Lee Sin is not Lee Sin. Just as I am not Master Yi.”

“Then who is Lee Sin?” Riven asked.

“A man from long, long ago. Longer than even the original Master Yi, a fact he likes to tease me with.” He coughed as they passed through an area where the soot clung to the air like a fog, and Riven covered her mouth and nose with the inside of her elbow until they’d exited looking like they’d just emerged from a coal mine.

Riven sneezed. “I meant the Lee Sin I met. Who is he really?”

“Ah,” he said, wiping his cheeks and forehead. “He’s never told me his real name, but you already know who he is. If he’s still the same Lee Sin I know, the name is the only thing he would’ve lie to you about.”

Riven nodded wordlessly.

“And even then, his fabled accomplishments aren’t too far out of the realm of possibility. The name has been passed down from master to apprentice for hundreds of years, a different personality for every generation. But every Lee Sin has had to earn the right to the name, because what use is a reputation that you can’t fulfill?”

It was a lot to take in, but Riven was a quick learner. “Strange,” she said.

“What’s truly strange is how no one has noticed that there’s been a Lee Sin of the Hirana Monastery for three hundred years, now. Do you think they just assume they’re all related? Or do they just think it the world’s biggest coincidence?”

The question hung unanswered between them for several blocks, the scuffing of their feet the only noise down the vacant alleyways. The vacant alleys…

She finally realized why the village seemed odd. There was nothing here.

The village was beyond the Noxian frontlines, and though it wasn’t uncommon for Noxus to sneak past the border for preemptive strikes, the target was always something critical to Ionian stability, like a military outpost or a major food depot. This was neither of those, just another Ionian town, and yet Noxus had risked losing one of their Melters to bomb the town to ashes.

“Why here?” she asked, and he turned his head toward her. “Why was this village attacked? I can’t see anything that would warrant this level of destruction.”

“Have I told you names can be dangerous?”

“No.”

Magenta and blue turned distant and reflective, but he didn’t lose himself in the past. And suddenly, Riven yearned to know how he did it, how he looked to the dreadful past but didn’t fall into despair.

“When this war first began, I fought with the resistance to keep Noxus at bay. To buy time for reinforcements to arrive at the Placidium. You’ve heard of the Battle of the Placidium?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“And you’ve heard how Irelia, Captain of the Ionian Guard, single-handedly defended the Placidium from the entire Noxian army?”

“Yes, I’ve heard the legends.”

“They’re bullshit.” Riven raised a brow in his direction, which prompted him to say, “A single soldier cannot defend against an entire army no matter how skilled they are with a blade, just as no man can live for three hundred years no matter how robust his health is. It’s simply not possible.”

“Then what actually happened?”

“She didn’t fight alone. I, and a collection of other warriors, stood alongside her.” A faintly nostalgic smile crossed his lips. “They were good men and women. Warriors of virtue; the best kind.”

“Was Sin there?” she asked curiously.

“The one you and I know? No, but the one before him was. So, in a sense, yes, but not in the way you mean.” She nodded, and he continued, “We fought together as fellow Ionians. We were a veritable army ourselves, and through sheer willpower, we repelled the attack. Due in no small part, I might add, to the tactical cunning of Irelia. We were proud of her; only sixteen, and she’d played an integral roll in the survival of the Placidium. We let her take the glory that day.”

“She was sixteen? Why the hell was she fighting?” Riven asked with doubt lilting her words.

“Because her father was dead at the hands of an assassin only hours before, and little Irelia was as stubborn as she was an effective fighter. That is to say: _very_.”

Sixteen and the blood of an army on her hands. Riven tried to relate, but most of the deaths at her blade had been harmless farmers, so she didn’t feel qualified to compare glorious conquests.

“We slew many Noxians that day. We were good.” A faint smile crossed his lips, but rueful regret pulled at the corners instead of mischief. “We were too good.”

Riven understood, now. “You were the highest priority. Noxus tracked you down.”

He nodded. “Noxus tracked us down.”

“This is your hometown?” she asked.

“Was.” He trailed his fingers along the wall as they walked, a trail carved through the black soot. “But now, it’s dead because of me.”

Riven didn’t know how to respond, guilt weighing on her shoulders when she realized that if she’d just said “No,” maybe Yi would still have his village. Irelia would still have her father, and Riven would have her peace. Sometimes, she really did wish she’d died that night.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“I’m not.” He rubbed the soot from his fingers, and while the sorrow still wandered his face like a phantom, the regret was gone. Replaced by an accepting tranquility. “If I hadn’t fought, they would’ve lost, and Noxus would’ve taken the Placidium. And if the Placidium falls, the rest of Ionia follows. I would trade my village for the survival of Ionia any day.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “Simple math, that’s all it is.”

Riven remained disagreeably silent, and Yi noticed.

“I was like you, once,” he said with amusement. “I thought I could save everyone. I thought the heroes won every battle, and when I discovered that wasn’t the way the world worked, I was angry. I was very, very angry with Noxus for what they’d done, with Ionia for not protecting me when I gave everything to protect Ionia. I wasn’t a person anymore, I was just… angry.”

Riven looked him over, took in his cheerfully yellow uniform and his placid expression and the crinkle lines around his eyes where smiles had left their mark. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I couldn’t believe it either. But war shows you things about yourself that you’d never ask about in the first place.”

“But you overcame it?” Riven asked with more enthusiasm than she’d meant, but this was important. This was so extremely important to her, because he was angry like her but now he wasn’t. “The anger? You overcame it?”

He eyed her knowingly. “Yes, I did.”

Her chest was going to burst because there was a chance. There was actually a _chance_ she wouldn’t wake up every morning screaming. There was a chance she wouldn’t have to fake smiles and happiness and joy and anything other than rage and nothingness.

This was her man. She knew it instantly; this man would help her push past it all and sleep with an easy conscience.

He chuckled.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” he said, “If you’d came to me a few years ago instead of today, I would’ve attacked you the moment I saw you.”

Riven glanced at him, but he was looking straight ahead. “I suppose I should be thankful.”

“Trust me,” and he looked at her with a twinkle in his eye and mischief in his grin, “You should be.”

They walked in silence after that, Riven stewing in her excitement and Yi leading the way. Leading the way to the place where the nightmares would go away and she could be happy again, and she tried to stay realistic, but she hope. She finally had hope, and she wouldn’t let anyone pry it away from her.

A flash of color caught her eye, and when she looked up, she stared.

They were at the edge of the city, fields of grass sprawling out before them, but in front of that was a cottage. A quaint, cobblestone cottage with two chimneys protruding from the shingled roof and windows with the shutters drawn and open. Cherry blossom saplings sprouted all up the gravel path to the door, clusters of flowers bordered shrubs, and ivy crept up the cottage walls.

“We’re here,” he said, and the gravel crunched beneath his feet as he stepped onto the path. “I built this with my own hands.” He waved in the general direction of the yard. “I have little eye for gardening, so a previous pupil handled the intricacies of that, but the rest was built by-.”

He noticed that Riven hadn’t followed him up the path.

“-yours truly.” His brow furrowed in annoyance, and he gestured for her to follow. “I could hear your stomach grumbling for half the journey. I know you’re hungry.”

Her throat was dry, so she didn’t answer immediately. Her heart was hammering, and her legs were stone.

“Riven?”

“I need help,” she blurted, and she winced internally at how desperate she must’ve appeared.

His annoyance vanished, and he turned around, walked back into a reasonable speaking distance, and placed both hands on his sword. “I know.”

Riven nodded, gaze on the green grass, fingers fiddling with the loose end of her bandages. “Sin told you why I’m here?”

“No.”

She looked up, and his mismatched eyes gazed straight through hers and saw into her soul.

“No, Sin did not tell me why you’ve come to me.” He reached to his belt, unrolled the parchment, and held it where she could see it. “All he sends is a description and your name. He prefers to let you tell me what I need to know.”

“I need help,” she repeated like a parrot that only knew one phrase. Blood dripped down her fingers, and she realized her fists were balled so tightly, her nails burrowed into the flesh of her palm.

“I know.”

“How do you know?” She tried add spite and venom, but she’d used it all up on her journey to the village, so it came out hollow.

 “How do I know?” His expression was grave, his eyes soft, yet firmly serious. He nodded his chin toward the town.

“Because you just walked through a village full of corpses and you didn’t bat an eye. Because you stepped over a child’s dead body and you didn’t spare it a passing glance. Because you don’t need a rag over your nose to handle the stench. Because you were prepared to kill me when you first approached me.”

Her gaze gradually dropped to the ground.

“Because you wandered through the city for hours, a city of death and destruction and unimaginable horrors, but you didn’t run screaming like so many others have. You didn't Because you’re covered in bandages, and you apply so much ointment, I can smell it from here.” 

She cringed. Was it really that bad?

“Because you made the trip from Hirana to here in three days.” He looked behind her. “I’ve walked that trail several times. I’m fast and nimble, but that trail takes me six days at the least.”

“I haven’t slept for three days,” she whispered, and the admission was much easier when her tired mind was aware of how tired she was. She wanted to lay down in the grass and close her eyes forever.

“I know,” he said. “And I know why you can walk through that graveyard with ease.”

The gentle breeze was her defense, because she was so tired. The grass was appealing, so soft and warmed by the sun…

“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? Mass graves and genocide?”

Her gaze flickered up to meet his. It was all the answer he needed.

“I can help you, Riven.”

She was going to cry, she was so relieved. But she was too tired to do anything, so all she said was, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He looked back to the cottage. “How about you come in and rest your legs and I cook us something for lunch?”

In her weary haze, that seemed like the nicest offer she’d ever received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you all next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has received so much consistent support, there really is no way for me to convey in text how much i appreciate you all! Please enjoy this chapter!

**6 Years Ago**

 

There was a forest not far from the master’s back door, a simple dirt road cutting through the fields of waist-high grass to the forest’s edge, and from there it was a short jaunt through the trees to the clearing where Riven and Yi worked beneath the morning sun. A graveyard for the corpses of the village, because even though there was nothing they could’ve done for them while they lived, they could at least bring their souls peace with a proper burial.

But to Yi, a tombstone was too impersonal. Cold stone and a name scratched into a grey, lifeless surface did no justice to the joyous lives they’d lived. So he’d settled on flowers.

To anyone else, that was all it would appear to be: a field of flowers. Evenly spaced like a garden, colors and a variety of vibrant hues swaying in the wind, flowers in every direction. Riven had to agree with Yi; a standard graveyard could never inspire the peaceful serenity or the raw passion of a field of flowers.

The breeze was slow and cool, a perfect counter to the gentle heat of the sun, carrying the fragrance of blossoms to mask the stench of death. And still, Riven had to cover her mouth and nose with a cloth to prevent illness from the corpses they buried.

Beads of sweat trailed down her forehead as she sank the spade further into the hole, and she grunted as she heaved a shovel full of dirt into the pile. It was shallow relative to the depth of most graves, but that was intentional, and with one final shovel-full, she wiped her brow with her bandaged arm and clambered out of the hole.

A cart rested a little ways away, and between her and it, another shovel flung clods of earth from a hole. They’d made significant progress over the past year, filling most of the clearing with a lush rainbow of color, and Yi was scouting suitable areas to expand in his free time.

She rolled back the tarp from the cart and looked over the final few corpses piled there, deciding on a petite pair of feet. She handled the cadaver with a soft touch, pulling carefully at its ankles and dragging it to the edge of the cart bed where she could hoist it into her arms and carry it to its grave.

It was a small boy, face gaunt and flesh crackly from chemical burns. Mouth twisted in fear, curled into a ball. His last moments would’ve been terrifying. Like a mother would handle her babe, she picked him up.

“Toss me one, will you?” Yi quipped from his hole.

Riven casually kicked soil into his face as she walked by, and he spat out dirt.

“What happened to your iron beliefs in respect? Does it abandon you when a good joke comes to mind?” she asked, lowering the child into his grave.

“More or less.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Tragedies like these… If you can’t find humor somewhere in them, then all is lost.”

Riven blew air from her nose. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do,” he said, and when he twisted his back to stretch, his spine popped audibly. “It can’t be good on your conscience to always be so dreary and serious.”

She knelt in the grave, pulled a seed from a pouch lying on the rim of the hole, and gingerly placed the seed over his heart. This was important; nowhere else but the eyes were as effective windows to the soul as the heart was, and the little boy’s eyes were eaten by maggots. She ensured the seed would stay where it lay, and then she whispered an incantation. The seed pulsed once, and Riven stood.

“We all show respect in different ways, Yi,” she said.

“And I would agree,” he said, huffing from exertion. “but you use it as an excuse to hide away your feelings. There’s only so much respect you can pay to an unknown man who’s been dead for six years.”

Riven shoveled dirt back into the hole. “But what if I made the corpse?”

“Then that would be different. However, you didn’t make that corpse.”

She didn’t answer. Hiding away in the sound of soil pattering into a grave.

“You didn’t make that corpse, Riven,” he repeated.

She snorted, then sighed deeply. “Yes I did, Yi.”

“ _Noxus_ made that corpse.”

“Because I let them.”

The scuff of dirt ceased beside her. “In that case, pack your bags.”

She frowned, and looked over to him. “Why?”

He leaned on his shovel, staring through her eyes and into her soul. “Because we must travel to the frontlines. They need buried, too, and according to you, you are singularly responsible for every fallen soldier in this war.”

Her mouth curled distastefully, and she returned to shoveling dirt into the hole. “Not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny at all. You killed them. Now, you must bury them. I’ll say it again: pack your bags.”

She huffed in exasperation, stood up straight, and put a hand in her hip. “I don’t need this, Yi.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

She frowned, pinching the bride of her nose. “What?”

“What’s the difference between the dead boy beneath your feet and the dead boy in the village down south slain during a border skirmish?”

She glared in his direction, because he knew the difference. “You know what the difference is.”

“What? You think you could’ve stopped this boy from dying?”

“Maybe…” She looked over the field, gaze dancing over the flowers and the colors bobbing in the breeze. The roots wrapped around their hearts, and when the blossoms sprouted, the personality of the person determined the color and the type. There were spotted roses and plaid sunflowers, striped poppies and entire palettes on a single petunia.

A wild world of personality lay before her, all of them gone.

“Maybe if I’d just said…”

“They would die anyways.”

“You don’t know that,” but she didn’t sound so certain herself.

“Riven, look at me,” and she looked at him, at Yi who was serious, at a Yi she rarely witnessed. “They’d find someone else. Someone better to lead the charge.”

“There was no one better.”

Yi snorted. “What, you think because you had admirers clawing at your underwear that you were the best?”

“They said I was the best-.”

“They lied.” He spat more dirt from his mouth. “It was bullshit from day one. They couldn’t have their glamorous Commander Riven buckle beneath the weight of reality while you waded through the Ionian ranks, could they?”

Riven turned away.

“You even admitted they lied about the promotion.”

Riven turned away because it hurt.

“They lied, Riven. Someone else would’ve assumed your role. There was nothing you could do.”

Riven turned away because it hurt. Because it was true, and she couldn’t handle the thought that there was nothing she could do to save them. No matter what she did, no matter how many she’d taken down with her, nothing she could’ve done would’ve changed the outcome even slightly.

It was easier to say it was her failure that killed them. Her slip-up that put the men and the women and the children in the ground and sprouted the flowers for all to see. It insinuated she could do better next time, that the outcome was somehow influenced by her actions. But nothing she could’ve done would’ve influenced the outcome. Nothing she could’ve done to save them.

Helpless. She was helpless, and that was scarier than the responsibility of failure. She was just a stupid kid that couldn’t handle the fact that the world didn’t spin to her wishes.

“I can make you the best.”

She glanced at him. His shovel was back in the dirt.

“I can make you the best there ever was.”

She continued replacing the upturned soil into the hole, one eye on the grave and one eye on Yi. “How?”

“Sin honed your body.” He grumbled when he struck something hard, bent over, and heaved a rock the size of his head an impressive distance away. “I will hone your mind. But I need you to promise me something.”

Riven pulled the cloth from her mouth so she could breathe easier. “That depends on the promise.”

He chuckled. “What have I done that would encourage such caution?”

“You’ve hit me in the face.”

“With a sword,” he corrected.

She frowned. “I’m not sure that sounds any better.”

“Of course it is,” he said, throwing a toothy smirk her way, “Now you can say you were stabbed in the face by the legendary Master Yi and lived to tell the tale.”

“What was the promise?” she asked.

“Do as I say.”

“And not as you do?”

He grinned. “That goes without question.”

She contemplated while she held the shovel with a strong grip, using her knee to lever mounds of dirt. He hadn’t asked anything too crazy from her, and while she disagreed with his humor, he’d been trustworthy the year she’d bunked with him.

“I will ask a lot,” he interjected into her thoughts. “Sometimes, what I ask will seem outside of the realm of possibility. It isn’t.”

She was hesitant at first, as she always was on the topic. “Will I sleep soundly?”

“Your nightmares will not go away,” he said.

Her heart plummeted.

“I can’t change the way you think, Riven. No one can. No one but you.”

“And how do I do that?” she asked spitefully.

“I will show you. But first, you must promise me that you will do what I tell you.”

“Promise me something in return.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t lie to me.” Too eager for an answer, but she’d come this far and with nothing to show for. If this was some silly magic trick, she wanted nothing of it. “Promise me.”

No pause, no indecision, no doubt. He stopped, looked her in the eyes, and said, “I swear.”

“Say it.”

“I swear I will never lie to you.”

She looked him up and down, looked to his solemn magenta eye. She stared at that eye, and it didn’t blink. It didn’t glance away, didn’t dilate or shrink its pupil. It stayed constant.

She nodded softly. “Alright. I promise.”

“Good.”

And just like that, they were quiet again. Shoveling dirt into a hole, lowering a body, planting a seed and a spell, replacing the dirt, whispering a prayer, and restarting the whole process over again. The sun crept up the clear, blue sky, shining hotter as the breeze blew the scent of flowers all through the trees and across the fields.

When she walked to the cart for another body, Yi was already there. “I’ve got the last one right here.” He pulled the body to the edge of the cart, and he strained to pick it up. “Why must you leave the heaviest for me?” he asked through grit teeth as he secured a hold.

“You could use the workout,” she said, using the moment to unscrew the cap of her canteen and quench her thirst. She watched Yi struggle with the bulk of the stiff corpse, haul it to the grave, and set the body into the hole.

He stood, but then he paused and frowned. “Wait, I think I know this man.”

Riven shoved her canteen into her satchel. “Are you serious?”

“He may have been my barber.” He reached down, inspected the face, and mumbled, “May you cut the silkiest, most beautiful hair in heaven, my friend.”

He brought the seed close to his lips, whispered the spell, then placed the seed on its chest.

“I thought the spell came after placing the seed?” she asked curiously.

“No,” he said, and stood. “If you place the seed before you speak the words, they revive with a taste for flesh.”

She stared at him, standing completely motionless.

He chuckled. “A joke, of course.”

“Of course.” She threw her satchel over her shoulder, shaking her head, and walked to wheel the cart to the house. “Why would it be anything but?”

“Wait.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“I need you to do something,” he said, and the way he said it, she knew she wouldn’t like it.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked warily.

He walked to a section of the ground, examining the grass, and then he looked at her thoughtfully. “I need you to dig a hole. Right here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Remember our agreement.”

She shifted weight on the balls of her feet, trying to find his intentions in his eyes, but she could find none. Eventually, she walked to her shovel, took it in her hand, and walked to where Yi stood. She looked into his eyes one last time, saw nothing but magenta and blue, and struck the earth with the shovel.

“How big?”

“Not very.”

She broke the sod and tossed chunks of grass aside, then dug a hole as wide as her shoulders and as deep as the distance from her knuckles to her elbow. She stopped and eyed Yi when she was done.

He spoke with a cool voice. “Unroll your bandages.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Please, just unroll your bandages.”

She was hesitant, but she obeyed. She removed her gloves, untied the white strap at her wrist, and slowly unpeeled the gauze. When she was finished with her right, she started with her left, and when she’d finished, she piled them neatly atop her satchel.

The skin glittered under the sun, coated in a layer of sweat and ointment, and her arms were lighter in tone than the rest of her body due to a lack of sun.

“How do they feel?” he asked.

Naked. Uncomfortable. Exposed. Like she could accidentally scratch them on a branch, and she’d be sent spiraling into a world of pain.

“Perhaps I should rephrase the question: do they hurt? Do you feel pain?”

She shook her head. “Not right now. But when I… Without the medicine, it burns.”

“Is the pain severe?”

“Yes.” So severe, she could puke.

“And this medicine. It soothes the pain?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, breathing in, breathing out.

“Take the medicine from your satchel.”

She stooped cautiously, wary of her open wounds and of his schemes, and retrieved the medicine: a shallow jar with a clear, gelatinous substance contained within. It was nearly empty; Riven would need to find the ingredients for a refill.

“May I see it?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She surrendered it, but when he gripped it, she held on for a few seconds.

“I promise not to do anything with it.”

She reluctantly released it, and he read the instructions pasted to the lid.

He hummed knowingly, scanning the words. After unclamping the lid and sniffing the substance, he replaced the cap, looked at the label one last time, then handed it off to her grabby, shamefully eager hands.

His eyes stared her down, darted up both arms, and resettled on the jar in her hands.

“I want you to drop the jar into the hole and bury it.”

His speech was clear, his words Ionian, but she couldn’t understand a single thing he said.

“What?”

“I want you to bury the jar.”

Again, he was calm and enunciated but she didn’t know what he was saying or why he was saying it.

“I don’t understand.”

“Read the label.”

She read the label aloud. Then, as instructed, the ingredients and how to cook the medicine. He looked at her expectantly, but she just frowned.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s a placebo, Riven. It’s fake, nothing but a watery putty with herbs to give it a pleasant scent.”

Same language, clear syllables, but she still couldn’t understand what he was saying. “What?”

His eyes conveyed truth, but what he was saying was a lie. “It’s fake.”

“No,” she shook her head, brow furrowed, “no, it works. When I feel pain-.”

“Read the label,” he said evenly. “There’s nothing there that helps with pain. Or anything, really. Swallowing it might quell an upset stomach, but the texture alone is repulsive in the mouth.”

She shook her head, because that wasn’t true. When she felt pain, it soothed the burning agony trailing up her back and up her arms, and now that she thought of it, her wounds were tingling with early onsets. She unclamped the lid-.

“Riven, you know it’s fake,” Yi warned.

“Shut up.”

“Riven-.”

“I said _shut up_.”

He stepped forward.

Stepped forward to take her medicine, because he wanted her to hurt.

But she’d been hurt enough, so she clutched it close to her heart and stepped away. “No, stay away.”

He stepped closer. “Riven-.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, stepping backward with her medicine clutched close to her pounding heart.

“Riven, you need to stop. It’s fake, a placebo-.” He reached out for her.

 “No,” she growled, snarling. “You just want me to hurt, don’t you? You want me to hurt just like you. You fucked up and killed your entire village, and you can’t stand suffering alone.”

“That’s not true-.”

“Don’t lie!” she shouted, lip quivering. “You promised not to lie! Don’t you fucking lie to me, too! Don’t you fucking dare!”

“I haven’t lied, Riven.” Calm and collected as ever, his eyes sympathetic, his steady approach amicable. “I haven’t broken the promise.”

“You have no idea how much it hurts!” she seethed, saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth. “You have no idea how much I need the medicine!”

He glanced behind her, and his hand darted out for her. “Riven, stop!”

“No, you stay away, you-!”

She tripped on the rock he’d thrown earlier, and when she landed, her bare forearms slid against the grass. She shrieked because pure agony raked across her flesh, all up her forearms, her shoulders, and down her spine. She was burning again, and she flailed to roll off the fire.

“Riven!” Yi said, and when he bent to scratch at her wounds, she kicked him in the chest. He grunted, flying through the air and landing several strides away.

Her medicine could help. Her medicine was lying right in front of her. Heart pounding, skin throbbing, and fingers trembling, she madly ripped open the lid and doused her fingers.

But when she gently applied the salve to her arms, her skin still burned. So she applied more, smearing it up and down her arms, but the fire was still there, still searing away. More and more and more, but it wasn’t working, and now she was weeping because it hurt so badly and her only salvation had failed her.

She was lied to. She was betrayed and she was burning alive, and she curled into herself and shrieked with her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clamped together.

She was burning alive in this field. She would die here, smothered in lies with tears on her cheeks.

“Riven,” he said, and when he lightly touched her arm, she shrieked and pulled away.

She was burning alive.

“Riven, listen to me.”

She was burning alive.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said, and she was burning alive and she needed help because the medicine was a lie. Snake oil from some rat she’d hunt down and kill.

His hands grabbed her shoulders, and she howled and struggled to get away.

“Think of the flowers, Riven,” he said.

His hands chafed her skin, and she wriggled to escape.

“Don’t think of the pain. That will only make it worse,” he said, and how could she ignore it when it was her skin burning to a crisp? “Think of the field of flowers. You’re alone in a field of flowers.”

She could smell it, the sweet perfume wafting to her nostrils. She could taste it, too.

“Think of the colors, Riven. You remember what they symbolize?” Personalities. Feelings. Emotions. “Think of all the colors, Riven. All the happy colors.”

Sea blue and sunshine yellow and verdant green. Vivid scarlet and sumptuous violet and brilliant orange. She could see them, the colors and the personalities. The happiness she’d planted and the sorrow she’d sown.

She liked to talk to them by moonlight. When the world was pale and dark so her worry was invisible, she’d walk up the dirt trail and she’d sit among the flowers beneath the moon. When she was too scared to sleep, she’d come here and speak to the flowers. They couldn’t talk back, but she knew they understood because, sometimes, their colors would shift to somber indigo when she recounted her tales.

They couldn’t talk back, but that was good. She was frightened of what they might say.

When she glimpsed the sun-washed field through blurry eyes, the colors were bright and vibrant. A cheerful collaboration.

Magenta and blue were what she saw when she raised her head. And when she looked down at his arms whose sleeves had been displaced in the struggle, she saw burns like hers.

“I know how it feels,” his soft voice said. “It burns worse than anyone can describe in words.”

Silence was her answer, and guilt gnawed at her.

“Yours are much worse than mine. I only have scars on this arm to my elbow.”

His wound appeared tame compared to hers, which spanned the length of both arms and all down her back to her tailbone.

“I took pain medication for two months. Yours would take longer, six months, perhaps a year. But six years?” He looked at her with a brow raised. “You had to have known something wasn’t right.”

Maybe she did. Maybe the uneasy tug in her gut was warning her all along. She stared at the ground.

The jar of medicine, resealed with the lid, wiggled itself into her hand.

“You know what you must do.”

She did.

She should’ve faced difficulty in standing. Her feet should’ve felt like lead blocks as she shuffled to the hole. Her fingers should’ve grasped at the jar like it was her lifeline, like she’d burn alive without it.

But when she stood over the hole, staring down into the dirt, the jar fell from numb fingers into the soil. She was just too tired to give a damn. Halfway through the day, and she was already exhausted.

She watched with rapt attention as the glass disappeared behind shovelful after shovelful of soil, and when it vanished beneath the sod completely, she could breathe.

She wasn’t burning alive. No one but the merchant had lied to her.

“I should stop bandaging my wounds, shouldn’t I?” she asked vacantly.

“Don’t call them wounds. They haven’t been wounds for a long time.” Yi’s rough hands palmed her shoulder with a compassionate gruffness; hard enough to reliably diagnose the tissue, but not so hard it hurt.

“Then what do I call them, if not wounds? Burns?”

“Scars,” and he released her arm. “They’re scars. And, no, you shouldn’t bandage them anymore. It wouldn’t be beneficial to your mental health if you walked around like a mummified pharaoh from Shurima.”

She nodded. She should bury them, too, she thought. They were just as big a deal as the medicine.

“When the pain returns-,” he paused, “If the pain returns, I want you to think of this field of flowers. I want you to think of all the good you’ve done for these people, how many souls you’ve lain to rest. Can you do that?”

She nodded with more willingness. Anything to help her sleep.

Yi stood, his hand low in offering. She took it, but she was so heavy, she almost pulled him down with her.

“Ah, well, it’s the thought that matters, eh?” He shrugged his shoulders.

And as he turned and made tracks for the cart, a hint of a smile crossed her face.

 

**ooooo**

 

“You should pack your bags,” Yi said over rice and noodles.

Riven swallowed her dinner, eyeing him. “Are you illustrating another point?”

He shook his head, shadows cast over his face from the firelight. “You want to be the best, don’t you?”

She stirred the broth, the soggy carrots and onions floating around her chopsticks. “Of course.”

Of course she didn’t want to be helpless. Of course she wanted to make a difference.

“Then pack your bags.” He glanced around the cottage. “It’s time we see what the world has to offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	14. Shattered, yet Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize preemptively for the general lack of polish on this chapter, but I've got little time to fix it, so I figured I'll get it out to you guys now and edit later. Enjoy!

**5 Years Ago**

 

The Ironspike Mountains were a sight to behold. Jagged, snow-capped teeth peeked out from a low bank of clouds that drifted through the valleys like a river, the mountaintop islands as high in the sky as one could be without mechanical intervention. Nothing but mountains as far as the eye could see, purple rock ascending from the oceans of cloud and gradually melting into white, icy peaks.

On the odd day, the clouds dispersed for an hour or two, and windows into the lower world flaunted dark green forests of pine and meadows of scraggly, chartreuse grass. Lakes like pools of liquid mercury caught the runoff from the mountains, and revealed a mirrored dimension where everything was the same, but upside down.

The sky was pure cerulean, all the clouds billowing below, and the sun shined without hindrance over the sawtooth landscape. The air was chilly at this time in the morning and thin at this altitude, but that was the intention.

A wide horizontal sweep with the bamboo blade would intersect at her throat, and Riven stepped away. Her feet crunched the snow of the tiny plateau they sparred on, and though the serene mountain range was there to gaze upon, all her attention was on Yi.

And breathing. Breathing was difficult with so little air, and she fought to stay conscious every minute. In contrast, Yi was calm, his foggy breath spurting from his nose in regular intervals.

“You have the heart of a bull, Riven. Staying awake should not be a problem.”

She nodded halfheartedly, gloved fingers wrapped around the hilt of her own bamboo training sword.

“In through the nose, out through the mouth,” he said. “Practice now; in through the nose, out through the mouth.”

The air froze the hairs of her nostrils, her exhale warm on her chapped lips. She adjusted her grip on the hilt, sliding one hand down to the pommel and the other pressed against the guard. Her feet planted wide, she was the spitting image of Yi’s combat stance. Taller and bulkier, maybe. A little less firm in her positioning, but that would mend with practice.

And practice they had. Practiced daily aboard the vessel that shipped them to the far shores of Kaladoun. They practiced strikes and counterstrikes all along the banks of the Serpentine River, and practiced footwork around the boiling mud pits of the Bubbling Bog. She learned defensive magic against rouge spellslingers in the Howling Marshes, and perfected climbing in the Ironspikes because Hirana had already introduced her to the joys of scaling something steep.

Practiced because only then could she be the best.

And apparently the best could fight without breathing.

Yi circled, one foot over the other. He wore little, only a pair of trousers and a light shirt, and he’d forced her to brave the cold climate as well. Just gloves to keep the fingers warm, wrappings to cover her breasts, and a loose pair of pants. Completely inadequate and she was freezing, but this was a test of endurance.

“It’s all in the head,” Yi said. “Pain and discomfort are mental. Your body can survive in these conditions, but only if you stay calm.”

Riven inhaled through her nose, and exhaled through her mouth.

Yi rushed her, and she remained where he was, observing his body language. He coiled to strike, aiming high, and she readied her weapon appropriately.

But he didn’t strike high, instead whipping low and connecting with her knee. It was solid and loud, and when she swung low to bat the blade away from her body, he brought the blade up and smacked it across her throat.

Already short of breath, the blow crippled her ability to do anything, and she staggered away.

“You can hold your breath for four minutes, Riven. Thirty seconds should be nothing.”

Still she stayed down, one hand on her throat and one hand feebly hanging on to the blade. Yi moved in, because they’d determined months ago that she was ready for harsher training, and thrust for her stomach.

But Riven had taken his advice to heart, and instead of struggling for air, she held her breath.

She parried the stick, swinging down on his blade and batting it low and right of her, and then she darted forward swipe at his throat with inhuman speed.

He leaned away casually, her blade hitting nothing, and he swung low at the same, forward knee. It hit so hard, she toppled sideways into the snow.

He chanced a vertical strike, but she rolled away and onto her feet. When she reassumed the stance, he was shaking his head.

“You’re fighting with reaction. You cannot fight purely through reaction.”

Yi stabbed, and she struck it away with a horizontal swing. He converted the momentum, windmilling it over his head to strike horizontally from the other side. She raised her weapon and blocked it.

But the blade only glanced hers like he hadn’t meant to hit her, and he hadn’t. Because when the blade was clear, he whipped it back the opposite way and struck her knee out from under her.

She landed hard, and when she rolled away, two strikes whacked her spine before she’d stood.

Yi paused.

“Riven.”

“Yes?” she said, doing what she could to inhale through the nose and out through the mouth.

“Instinct, Riven.”

“I’m trying, Yi.”

“No you’re not. When you try, you are formidable. When you simply react, you are simply shit.”

She hung her head, closing her eyes. She knew it was true, and she bit her tongue to prevent defensive behavior. She was wrong, and she had to accept that.

Instinct. The key to Wuju.

That tug in her gut when she passed a cavern that didn’t sound so abandoned. The caution she felt when the insects were a little too quiet at night. The tingle that itched at the back of her neck when she felt someone watching her but couldn’t quite figure out who.

The most basic mechanism of thought.

“Let instinct guide you. Let it whisper in your ear the dangers you face.”

It could be honed to a sharp weapon, a tool of unimaginable use. A way to know what the opponent was going to do before they’d even acted.

“Will I feint, or will I follow through?” he asked, circling. “Let your instinct tell you. Let your mind guide your blade and your fists.”

It wasn’t easy. If it was, Wuju would be common and not nearly extinct.

A mind cleared of distractions.

That was something she didn’t have, but a year ago, she was slathering salve like she wanted to drown in it, so she clung to hope and the occasional excitement from signs of progress.

“You’re stronger than me. Faster than me. I’d be easy prey, but I know what you’re doing before you know what you’re doing.”

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She was calm because she refused to be anything else, and she focused solely on the man before her. Focused on his hands and his grip and his footing for clues. Focused on his eyes and how and where they flickered.

Yi advanced, swinging high.

She was going to parry, but it didn’t feel right; he didn’t appear committed to strike. So she grit her teeth and forced herself not to react.

She was correct. He ducked away when she didn’t fall for his feint.

“Good, very good.”

He thrust, and she swiped it away just like the others, the stick passing low and left.

But she didn’t follow through this time. He looked overextended, but when she paid careful attention to his forward foot, it was coiled and ready to push himself away; he was ready for a counterattack. She’d missed it every time previous because she was focused on reacting.

He retreated.

“Good catch.”

He swiped high, and she ducked. She almost swung at his stomach, but she paused. Too aggressive. Too reactive. There was a reason why it was too easy, and she searched for it in a split second.

It was because the swipe didn’t feel intended for damage; it was meant to corral her where he wanted her. He knew she’d duck under and strike for the abdomen, and so she dodged away. She noticed how his feet twitched, like he was going to strike, and her face was grateful that she’d listened to caution.

He swung at her throat, the edge hurtling in from her right, and she blocked the strike. Then he swung from the other direction, and she blocked that one too. He made to swing at her throat again.

But she glanced his footing, and it was all wrong for as high a blow as he was aiming. He was going for her knee again, she realized.

When he redirected his swing at the last moment and swung diagonally downward from the right, the bamboo smacked against her own blade instead of her knee. She expected praise.

Her instinct told her otherwise, that feeling in her gut that said he wasn’t going to let up.

A moment later, he windmilled his blade back over his head and struck at her from the left, and she was going to smack the blade away, but she realized that would leave her right flank open.

Instead, she parried it, letting his blade slip off of hers.

He was overextended now; she saw it in the almost undetectable slip of his forward foot as he tried to retreat. She closed the gap, weapon coiled to strike.

But it was too easy again, and from the bottom right corner of her vision, she saw his blade swinging diagonally upward. He’d baited her into dropping her defense, but she was aware of his scheme now.

Riven intersected the strike low, keeping his blade locked to hers, and threw his weapon above his head. His arms too high above his head to recover, Yi could only watch as she continued her swing up, around, and across. The bamboo weapon smacked his side with bruising force, and Riven dodged backward blade ready.

However, Yi just stood there, eyeing her.

A grin crossed his face, and Riven relaxed. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“See?” Yi said. “Your instinct will never lie to you. Listen to it speak, and then react.”

Riven could only nod, lightheaded and lungs sore.

He chuckled when he examined her current state. “Perhaps we should rest?”

She shook her head. “Just a moment,” she said, hand on her hip for stability. “I’ll be ready in just a… a moment.”

His grin was toothy, his eyes sly. “I think you’d pass out if we continued any further.”

“No,” she waved him off. “I’m fine, I promise.”

His strike was fast, and she could’ve reacted in time had she not been so exhausted. But she was exhausted, and the thrust to her diaphragm struck true. Her legs were jelly, her arms useless and limp, and she collapsed onto her back. The cool layer of snow cushioned her impact, and her eyelids fluttered shut.

“In through the nose, out through mouth,” he reminded, and his chuckling footsteps stalked away.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The air may have been cold and sparse here, but it was clean air. Untouched by the nearby smoke factories of Piltover and Zaun. Eventually, she rose from the crust of snow and hobbled over to the edge of the plateau to better breathe the fresh air.

The drop was sheer, the face of a cliff pocked by stray boulders and patches of rock, but Riven didn’t mind. The edge was solid, and she brushed an area clean of snow and seated herself, legs crossed, spine straight. Her arms and back were bare, wounds- _scars_ \- prickling pleasantly in the cold.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Something hot tapped her shoulder. Yi was offering her a cup of tea, boiled over the fire crackling by the trail down. The heat of the cup was stark, but not uncomfortable, and she singed the tip of her tongue slurping its contents. Fresh herbs wafted to her nostrils.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“How are your toes?” Yi asked, seated beside her.

She wiggled them. “Numb, but no frostbite.”

“And your fingers?”

“Blistered and aching.”

“Good. Anything else would mean a lack of effort.”

The hushed breeze was the only noise, the only living thing that watched them resting far below. The wind rustled her hair, and she reached back and freed it from her ponytail. Her short, ashen locks blustered about and tickled the nape of her neck, but she didn’t restrain it. Only closed her eyes and let the strands dance over her face.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“How are your nightmares?” he asked.

She opened her eyes. “You know how they are.”

“I suppose so.” They slept in the same tent. There was no possible way he couldn’t hear her panicked breath when she awoke. “You’ve thought of the field of flowers before you rest your head?”

She nodded. “Dreams will sometimes elude me, but they still come most nights. And no field of flowers has helped mellow them.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She sipped her tea until her cup was empty, and she held the clay until all heat had dissipated. The view was unmatched, and she watched the clouds drowsily roll and crash like the waves of a sleepy sea.

“What gives you purpose?” Yi asked.

There was no warning, and so she had no answer prepared but, “What?”

“Why do you wake every morning? What compels you to get out of bed and clash with me all day?”

The question was sudden and abrupt, and she frowned in thought.

She wasn’t sure why she still threw off the covers every morning and cleaned her teeth. She had no reason for attacking Yi with such ferocity, for training like her life depended on it. It was just something she did, like a routine. Something to become lost in and forget her troubles. Something to bring her some semblance of satisfaction.

Perhaps she didn’t have a purpose.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Think of it,” he said.

“It’s not that easy,” she said, staring blankly at the world below.

“Maybe not, but there is reason for everything.”

She blew air through her nose. “Is that what your instinct tells you?”

“No,” he said. “An observation after forty-something years of life.”

She carded her fingers through her hair, tapping her foot anxiously. The more she thought of it, the more it bothered her. What was her purpose? Why did she get up this morning? Why wasn’t she flinging herself from the mountain right now, permanently safe from nightmares?

She glanced to him, and his eyes were completely on her.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked. “You know what motivates me?”

“I believe I have a general idea.” She waited for him to tell her, and the corner of his lip curled up, annoyingly amused. “Figure it out yourself. Why do you train with so much… vitality?”

To hide herself from the world around her. To run from her problems. To release the stress and to channel the pain. Too many possibilities.

“You want to be the best. Why do you want to be the best?”

“I don’t want to be helpless anymore,” she said.

“Do better than that,” he urged. “What don’t you want to be helpless about?”

“Helping… people?” she offered weakly.

“Who do you want to help?”

Hana. The people of that fishing village, and every person in every village she’d raided. The Elder. The people of Yi’s village. Everyone she’d caused misery for.

“Ionia.” No, that was too impersonal. “Ionians,” she corrected herself.

“How? How do skills with a blade help Ionians?” he asked. His magenta eye stared her down, and he asked, “How will you save Ionians?”

Goddesses, she’d made that promise so long ago, she’d forgotten about it. She’d sworn an oath for it, broken her sword to prove her dedication for it, _burned alive_ for it. It had her heart pounding just thinking about it.

“I want to stop Noxus,” she said. “I want to end the war.”

_I want to end the war._

Now that it was out, it sounded so stupid. One woman with a shattered sword against a country that had waged war for centuries. Impossible odds, even for the fabled hero, Irelia.

But Yi didn’t berate her. He didn’t raise a brow, or interject, or persuade her to reason.

Yi just nodded.

He produced an object from his side, and laid it before her: her weapon.

“Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes.

“Breathe.” His voice was more distant, but only slightly so. Like he was standing behind her. “It’s important that you breath.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

That was how she breathed the cool, mountain air.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Your purpose; think of it. Let it consume you. Let become part of you.”

Save Ionia.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Stop Noxus, Save Ionia.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

No longer would she stand knee-deep in bodies and mope about what could be. No longer would she avert her gaze every time a young girl with charcoal braids looked her way. No longer would she wake up every morning with the taste of acrid smoke on her tongue, the screams of her dying men echoing in her ears.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Hana died because Riven was a spineless coward that couldn’t think for herself. _Wouldn’t_ think for herself because she was a soldier, a mindless unit of war, a pawn for the Grandmasters of this chess game to discard at their whim.

She had legs, but she refused to take a stand for her beliefs. She had arms, but she tied them to strings so puppeteers could move her like a marionette. She had a mind, but she drowned it in poisonous propaganda and the foolish thought that she mattered. She had a heart, but she crushed it in her bare hands because soldiers didn’t feel.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

The Elder perished because Riven was blind, deaf, and dumb to the consequences of her actions. She thought she was smart. She thought she’d figured it out. She thought she was rebelling against a corrupt system, but her rash decisions had bloody, fatal repercussions that she only noticed when it was too late.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Yi’s hometown incinerated beneath a hellfire because of a machine Riven had built. Sure, she was an expendable piece, replaceable by anyone, but she was still a gear in the stopwatch of a ticking time bomb. Obliterated once she’d served her purpose, no trace of her existence, and she’d eaten up their lies that her specific gear would somehow survive. And she did, but not because of them.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Riven survived, and Yi was right: everything happened for a reason.

She was alive, and she was armed. She would train until she was the best there ever was, and then some. When she stands knee deep in bodies now, they will all be felled by her willing blade.

She would be the last mistake Noxus ever made.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Calm. She was at peace, breathing a rhythm with the wind.

_In through the nose…_

Yi snapped his fingers next to her ear.

_…Out through the mouth._

It was like a fire erupted in her veins, and everything came rushing back to her in an instant but it was amplified until it was overwhelming.

The cold was so intense, it was painful. She felt every snowflake against her skin, felt its every groove and its unique, miniscule pattern before it melted from her body heat. Her clothes painfully chaffed against her skin, every individual fiber so distinct, she could count them if she had the time.

She could smell Yi’s cologne like she’d stuffed her nose into the bottle, could smell the scent of rain. Something coppery, too, something like blood and pheromone of fear, and when something howled, she knew what she was smelling; in the forest below, a pack of wolves had slain a deer, ripped her throat open, and Riven could smell the blood.

The wind deafened her, whipped through her eardrums like it was a roaring gale but it was just a gentle breeze. Something exploded in regular intervals, a burst of two every second or so, and she realized it was Yi’s heartbeat. She could hear her own, too.

She choked on the powerful tang of grass and bitter roots, of something fresh. The herbs from the tea she’d slurped, and minty cold from a few particles of leftover toothpaste.

A dark spiderweb in front of her vision, and they were the veins and the arteries of her eyelids she was seeing in crystal clear imagery.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered, but his voice still boomed.

She did.

In through the nose, out through the mouth, but her heart had stopped.

Floating within reach was her sword, but it was whole again.

Like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces aligned, seams sown with a pure emerald light. The runes glowed just as brightly, never flickering or dying. Staying a constant, brilliant emerald. She reached out to grab it.

And she was glowing, too. Green, and not a toxic, chemical green, but an exuberant, dynamic emerald filled with life and unearthly essence coated her skin and her scars, her thighs and her knees and all of her. Even her hair sported a layer of green.

She took the hilt with both hands, cautious at first, and out of habit she whispered.

For the first time in a long, long time, her old friend whispered back. His breath ruffled her hair, swirled around her and encased her in a cocoon of blustery warmth.

‘ _Hello, Riven_ ,’ the Wind said. ‘ _Long time, no see_.’

She heard Yi crouch beside her, heard his joints snap and his bones creak with age.

“What is this?” she asked, bewildered. “This never did this before…”

“This is your life force, Riven,” he said.

“My life force?” She frowned, gaze prancing up the length of the blade.

“This,” he tapped her glowing skin, “is the essence of who you are. It is what makes your heart pump, your diaphragm expand, and your eyes blink. It is what inhabits your body.”

The blade was comfortably cool to the touch. “How did you do this?” she asked quietly, because any louder hurt her eardrums.

“You did this, not me,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him. He snapped, and yellow flashed between his fingers. “You were the kindling. I provided the spark. Now, you are the fire. I will teach you how to set yourself ablaze without trouble.” He frowned and looked to the ground, stroking his goatee, “Perhaps there was a better way to say that.”

Her gaze returned to the blade, stroking the metal with gentle fingers. “Why didn’t you teach me this before?”

“You were not all there when we first met,” he explained.

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“This is everything you are beneath the flesh and the blood and the bone. When we first met, you were as broken as your blade. Pieces were missing, valuable pieces of your essence. You were not all there.”

“And now I am?”

“No,” and she turned her head again, “But you are much more so than when we first met. It works now because enough of you is intact. In other words, this,” he tapped her sword, “is only as strong as this,” he tapped her temple.

She nodded, returning attention to the blade, caressing it like it was her lover. “Is this something everyone can do?”

“No. This is how you were born. When you count your blessings, number this among them.”

She could almost hear it speaking to her.

“Now listen, because this is very important.” Riven looked back to him. His eyes were grave, his expression stern. “This blade is very powerful. It doesn’t wound like other blades do, and because of this, you must be careful.”

“How powerful?”

“As powerful as your life force,” he said. “Right now, the actual blade will deal more damage, but when your training is complete, you will hold the power to utterly destroy a person.”

She nodded, focused on the gravity of his words.

“This means that when you cut a man down with that blade, you must be fully prepared to end their existence. There will be no body to bury and there will be no soul to pray to. Their entire being will cease to exist. This cannot be undone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded vigorously, eyes wide, and she held the weapon with new reverence.

His eyes pierced her soul, searching for any hesitation. He found none.

He stood, his joints cracking, and Riven was left alone with her weapon. The fragments weren’t just illusions; they were the real steel, and they weighed just as much. Riven would need to familiarize herself with the weight, but that was something she looked forward to.

Something cracked loudly behind her, and she whipped around.

In Yi’s hands, the glass blade of his weapon was filled with a white light, bolts of lightning popping and snapping like a fire.

“I think,” he said, masterfully twirling the weapon in his hands, “we can neglect the bamboo staffs from now on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your support makes this possible!


	15. Deserts and Different Dimensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 Kudos! Holy shit, you guys are awesome!   
> But on a more serious note, thank you all so much for your support and your comments. It means so much to me that you guys have read this far into it.  
> I've had no time to edit this, and I apologize for that, but I wanted to push this chapter out for those that don't mind the grammar mistakes and the possible weirdness that comes from unedited material. Regardless, enjoy!

**4 Years Ago**

 

The Shurima was hot enough as itself, a wasteland of sand and black monoliths baking beneath a hot sun. Oases were scant and shade was impossible to find at midday, and even the nomads who survived in the climate for most of their lives didn’t walk the desert sands when the sun was at its highest.

Shurima in the summer was hell on Runeterra. The wind blasted everything with a layer of warmth, but the true horror was when there was no wind at all. When the air was stagnant and scorching, the sun razed the flats like a furious deity punishing the wicked, but now there was nothing left to punish.

Everything was ash. Golden, shimmering ash.

Ash that permeated every part of Riven’s clothes, it seemed. A heavy, rawhide cloak over leather clothing that covered every inch of skin protected her from the harsh heat, but it also trapped it all in. She wore another layer of sweat beneath it all, and the bandanna around her mouth fluttered with her quick breath.

In through the nose and out through the mouth was much more difficult when her average heartbeat in the desert was twice her average heartbeat anywhere else, but she knew it was possible. Yi was doing it, after all.

The sand provided a slippery foothold, a piece of her focus concentrated on lifting one foot over the other as she positioned herself. She’d bandaged her hands for a better grip on her weapon, but sweat still slicked the hilt. Practice for when blood soaked the blade, she mused.

Yi crept over the sand with wary caution, bundled beneath robes and cloaks himself. Creeping like a scarab, or better yet, a spider from his seven, white optics following her movement. When they fought with fists, Riven had the reach advantage, but when she compared her fragment of a sword to his white, crystal saber, his weapon covered more distance. Thus, she would either need to focus on defense and punish when he overextended, or she would need to push an aggressive offense to close in.

She’d done a bit of both, and Yi had exercised all of his strategies, but neither’s methods had produced any success.

Neither had so much as scratched the other in weeks, much less scored a victory, and the pressure to beat the other to victory was as heavy as the heat around them. Maybe heavier. Sparring evolved into a mind game, because each knew what the other was going to do before they did it.

The sun was high, so positioning only depended on who had the higher ground. Shuffled footsteps trailed down a nearby dune, evidence of their ongoing battle, and there were probably still footsteps on the other side of the dune as well.

Yi’s posture was obscured by the layers of clothing, so the specifics were unknown to her, but she could tell he was closing in slowly. She prepared for an assault.

The first strike came from above, a vertical slash with an emphasis on speed rather than power. She sidestepped to the right, then stepped forward to thrust at his belly. He recovered in time to dodge backwards, then stepped forward to thrust at her throat.

She swiped it away to her left, and as she advanced, he pirouetted backwards. Riven stepped in to strike, but it didn’t feel right. An instinctual caution that sharpened her senses, and she saw through his spinning blur, that he’d pivoted now.

Spinning straight for her, blade out and slashing a wide horizontal from the right that would cut her in half.

A blast of wind propelled her skyward, and she landed behind him.

Yi refused to relent, pivoting instantly, swinging around diagonally from the upper right. She parried, white sparks erupting from the point of contact as it slid down her blade, and he immediately struck from the upper left. She parried that too, looking past the quartz deflecting off of her dark steel and reading his body language.

A wide swipe from the right, and she parried that too, but the contact was too light. Like he’d meant to merely graze her blocking blade, and she knew it was a distraction.

Sure enough, he whipped his sword back around so fast that she would’ve eaten it if she hadn’t expected it. She blocked it statically, blades clanging as she absorbed all the momentum he’d accrued.

She attacked without hesitation, and he barely had time to raise his weapon defensively. She struck with such force, he staggered, and when she struck again, he stumbled for a foothold in the sand. She launched herself straight up, a gale bursting from nowhere, and she raised her weapon over her head for a mighty blow.

It was so easy to dodge, so blatantly clear of where her next move was coming from, it was obvious to both that the blade itself wasn’t intended for him.

Then the wind hurled her to the ground, because gravity was too slow for her taste, and Yi nimbly rolled forward so he’d be behind her when she landed.

He sensed it; she could sense him sense it. But it was too late, because her blade had slammed to the ground before he could roll further, and an explosion of green light lobbed clouds of sand and a flailing Yi through the air.

When he stood, she was already upon him.

The first strike, he parried clumsily because he’d just regained his feet.

The second strike, he parried too, but her momentum was forward and added power, so his defense cracked.

The third strike, he was forced to block statically, and the sheer power behind the blow staggered him backwards. His defense was poor, his balance rocked, and Riven bound her blade with his, held it high, and planted a firm boot into his abdomen. He stumbled away.

But just before he landed in the sand, he blinked from existence in a yellow flash.

A tug in her gut, and she knew what was coming next. She knew where it was coming from because her instinct spoke to her basic abilities. Like the wind whispering into her ear, but it wasn’t the wind. This voice was less gentle and soothing and more primal and quick.

_Behind._

She rolled forward, and the white, crackling blade soared over her head, but that wasn’t all. Because he’d used this before, but also because her instinct told her it wasn’t over.

_In front._

Up on her feet, she threw up a guard, and white flared across the edge of her darksteel as a blade that appeared from thin air struck her weapon and grinded down the length. It disappeared.

_Left._

She pivoted, and when the blade resurfaced at a vector for her throat, it met her weapon and bounced off into the space between dimensions.

_Above_.

He seared through the fabric of reality, the space around him warped like she was gazing through a fisheye lens. Midair with his saber above his head, just like her moments before.

But he had no explosion to save him. He was vulnerable, knowing only that she would attack but not explicitly how. Not even the most honed instinct was that precise, and she saw her chance.

She swung with all her might, and as the blade traveled through the scorching air, as Yi whipped around with his blade raised defensively, she recalled why she existed. She remembered the faces of those that shaped her life, of those that compelled her to exhaust herself every day in the pursuit of skill. She remembered her purpose.

Riven was whole once more.

And because she was whole, so was her blade, and as it screamed toward Yi, fragments united sliver by sliver, gaining length and weight and raw power as it traveled until-.

Until it connected with Yi’s blade.

The crystal glass was near invincible, unbreakable by anything earthly and most things unearthly. Thus, it did not shatter to a million grains of sand when the darksteel collided.

But the torque was too great for Yi to overcome, and the sword ripped away from his grasp, twirling through the air until the blade sheathed a foot into the fine sand and stuck there.

They both stared at the saber, Riven with disbelief, Yi with some unseen emotion behind his goggles.

Yi burst into laughter, the rich noise surfing the dunes for an age and a half. He walked to his weapon, his shoulders still jouncing as he pulled it from the sand. Riven waited for him with her sword resting over her shoulder, emerald washing the ground around her.

Chuckling, he said, “Let me tell you something: it’s a good day for everyone when the apprentice surpasses the master.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come. Let’s head back to camp. Now, if only we knew where camp was…”

They followed the footsteps up to the crest of a dune, and when they surveyed the sunburnt landscape and scanned the sandy surf, they eyed a dot in the distance next to an obsidian pillar. Just a dot; that was how far their spar had carried them.

“What we lack in environmental awareness, we make up for in distance, eh?” he asked, and she smiled lightly behind her mask. “Any wounds, cuts, particularly nasty bruises?” he asked.

“None,” she said, her mind elsewhere.

“Is something wrong?” Yi asked.

She didn’t reply straightaway, formulating the words on her tongue. “So that’s it?”

“So what’s it?”

“Is that all there is to it?” she asked, concerned. “Is my training complete?”

He chuckled as they half-jogged the last stretch down a dune, waiting for her to catch up to his side before he spoke again. “You’re not done until you can beat _ten_ Master Yi’s with the flick of your wrist.”

A relieved nod.

They hiked through the desert in silence, a breeze blowing from the north, until they’d arrived at their camp. An animal-hide tarp was stretched across the tops of four wooden poles for shade, and more tarp could be rolled down all four sides to make a boxy tent. Only the east and west sides were unrolled, and a rug lay as the floor beneath their bedrolls and their packs of supplies. Two Shurima camels, the hardiest coin could buy and their means of transportation, lazed side-by-side. They snorted as the duo approached.

They checked their bags and their supplies to see if looters had nicked anything in their absence, but nothing seemed out of place and all their food and water were still there.

“Rest,” said Yi, and they unwrapped their faces in the shade and guzzled an appropriate amount from their water bags. “We set out at dawn’s first sliver.”

 

**ooooo**

 

Shurima at night was a different kind of hell. The kind that froze her to the bone, and she was grateful for the thick, leather wrappings around her entire body. With no cloud coverage to trap the heat, it radiated from the ground and left the air cold and the sand chilly in its wake.

The sky was clear, though, so the stars were at least visible, twinkling in their constellations. Yi had introduced her to few she’d never heard of, among them a celestial dragon that roamed the vast nothingness whose fiery breath conjured galaxies of glimmering stars with every eruption.

She’d shown him a few new constellations herself, but it didn’t quite go over as she’d expected.

“A mouse? Why on the Gods’ green Runeterra would anyone take a mouse into the heavens?” he asked.

“I just told you! Because he saved the princess from the assassin, and the Goddess Soraka, grateful that he’d protected her bloodline, took him into her hands and into the stars,” Riven said, the firelight flickering across her face. “That’s why he’s always seen sitting beside Soraka every spring cycle. This is an Ionian tale; surely you’ve heard of it?”

“A tale of a mouse’s squeak alerting a princess to danger?” He shook his head. “No, I’ve heard nothing of it. I’m more surprised you haven’t heard of Aurelian Sol.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I didn’t know who or what he was.”

He nodded acknowledgement, and the night’s silence descended from the star-speckled sky.

The glow from the campfire frolicked across the stitched wall of the tent beside them, a drifting plume of smoke undetectable against the blackness of night. The sands lustered beneath the pale influence of the moon, the dunes like great, shadowy behemoths in the background.

They were a long way from the Ironspike Mountains, but the jagged horizon the dunes created reminded her of them.

They’d trekked north through the mountains until they’d arrived at the Freljord, and Riven divulged to her master that this was familiar territory.

_“Anyone we should avoid?” he asked._

_“Everyone,” she replied. “A Noxian in the capital of a Demacian ally is a political incident waiting to happen.”_

_“Then we’ll head for the harbor.”_

They’d sailed all the way down the western coast, past Kaladoun where they’d first arrived, past the shining city of Demacia, past the Great Barrier, but just below was where they stopped. At Urtistan, the ancient city where mages controlled time, reduced to nothing but ruins and faded obelisks. Through the streets, they’d fought each other and bands of marauders, and when the marauders were dead and their eyes were sore of the abandon, they’d traveled south to the Fyrone Flats, a dry bed for a lake that disappeared to the heat long, long ago. All that was left was the basin, dusty and windswept, and they’d moved on soon after.

Now they were in the Shurima, the most expansive desert in all of Valoran. Where the wind was either nonexistent or violent enough to summon sandstorms, with very little space in between.

It was a quiet night, nothing but the snort of the camels and Yi’s humming disturbing the air. His helmet was beside him, the flames glimmering in the optics, and his sword was sheathed and within an arm’s reach. As was hers to her, the single etched rune glowing softly.

She wondered if every Master Yi had their own, personalized headset, or if that helmet had weathered hundreds of years. She didn’t remember Hextech being around for more than a century or so.

He noticed her eyeing the helmet, and he asked, “What do you wish to know about it?”

Her eyes circled the rim of each optic, walked over the golden yellow highlights and curved down the barbed hook protruding from the back of the scalp. “How does it work?”

His brow quirked. “Do you want the technical specifications or the general idea?”

“I’m not certain I’d understand the specifics.

He picked it up and tossed it to her, and she caught it deftly. “See the hook?”

She nodded, and when she trailed fingers across the polished surface, it felt supernaturally cold.

“It isn’t a hook. It’s an antennae.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you know of The Void?”

“A myth to scare disobedient children?” she offered.

“Not a myth,” he said gravely, “Very real. The monsters are real, too. An entire dimension devoted to a species of abominations.”

“What does this helmet have to do with the void?” she asked. “Is that where it was found?”

He shook his head. “The Void and our dimension are interlinked. Like a mirror, if you will, but when The Void was first created, the monsters triumphed over the men, and not the other way around. So the world is the same, but the creatures are not. For example,” he tapped the ground, “where we sit, there is a corresponding place in The Void.”

Riven frowned. “Does that mean there is another you and another me?”

“No. If you’ll recall, the monsters killed the men.”

“How does your helmet fit into all of this?”

“The helmet slashes a rift through this dimension at my command. The rift is so small and calculated, only my matter is pulled through.”

“So you travel to The Void?” she asked. “Every time you disappear-?”

“I travel through dimensions to The Void, yes. It sounds dangerous, but I’m only there for an infinitesimal fraction of a second, not enough time for anything to grab me.” He pointed to the hook. “That antennae is tuned to the frequency of magic in both this dimension and The Void. Because they are mirrors, every spot in this dimension exists in the same location as The Void. The helmet teleports me to The Void, and from there, I simply walk to the corresponding location I wish to reappear at in this dimension, and the antennae pulls me through.”

“I thought you said you were only there for an infinitesimal fraction of a second? Walking ten strides requires more time than that.”

His magenta eye sharpened, a sly grin pulling at his mouth. “It requires more time in _our_ dimension. You see, time is warped; a millennia here is but a blink of an eye in The Void.”

She nodded slowly, the pieces aligning. “So this helmet pulls you through a portal into a mirror world, you walk to where you want to reappear, and then the helmet pulls you through another portal back into this dimension?”

“Precisely.”

She flipped the helmet over, inspecting the padding of the interior. She glanced up, the question on her face.

He grinned. “Of course. If it fits.”

It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to cram her head into the helmet. Her brow furrowed because all she could see was blackness.

Yi chuckled. “You have to turn it on. The knob over the left ear.”

She twisted it, and the display flickered to life. A digital screen presented a view of what she’d normally see without the helmet, but with a readout of numbers and letters in Ionian at the corners and sides of her view. A yellow targeting reticule highlighted Yi’s face, which appeared considerably amused.

“You look ridiculous,” he said.

“Now you know what you look like,” she replied, scanning the surroundings.

“Ha! Please, it looks stylish when I wear it.”

There was another knob on the opposite side, and she dialed it one click.

The environment was washed instantly with a yellow hue, but now she could easily see in the dark. It must be handy when fighting at night.

Yi was frowning. “Wait, Riven, don’t touch that-.”

But it was too late; she’d already dialed it one more click.

Suddenly, the headphones screamed static-.

No, not static. It sounded like static, but its volume varied in an irregular pattern. But it was still a pattern, increasing and decreasing in pitch, pauses arriving and long periods of silence before the static continued. Like words in a foreign language.

Something was communicating with something else.

And then she opened her eyes, because she’d closed them with the spike in volume, and her jaw dropped.

It resembled her surroundings, but it was _not_ her surroundings. The sand was darker in tone, littered with black crusts of something broken, and Yi and the camels and the tent were gone. The sky roiled with grey storms, purple streaks of lightning arcing from cloud bank to cloud bank, and everything was cast into a purple-grey darkness. However, Riven wasn’t looking at the sky.

Her eyes were fixed on the monolith before her. It wasn’t broken like the others, towering so high it vanished into the clouds.

And there were faces, human faces bulging from the pitch-black stone. Moving, twisting, screaming faces, shouting in agony, and when she looked around, she realized that the other pillars weren’t broken. All with damned faces shrieking static that she tried to hear but she couldn’t, and so she leaned in closer to hear their screaming static and-.

“Riven!”

She was plunged into blackness, and the helmet was swiftly removed from her head. Yi stood over her, one hand holding his helmet and one hand firmly grasping her shoulder. He was frowning.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded, bewildered.

“What-… What was that?” she asked as he stepped around to his side of the campfire.

Yi seated himself cross-legged in the sand, setting his helmet aside, and said. “The Void.”

Her eyes stared at the monolith behind him. No faces, no static screaming, just a black pillar shattered at the top. “What are they?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Prisons.”

“For whom?”

“Humans.” She stared him down until he reluctantly confessed, “The war between monsters and men occurred in both dimensions. The monsters built these pillars as prisons for souls. In our dimension, where humans won the war, we destroyed them once the monsters were vanquished. We did not win the war in The Void, so they remain as they are.”

Riven nodded slowly, comprehending what she just saw.

“That’s quite a pair of goggles,” she said.

“A techmaturgical marvel,” he said. “And so is my blade.”

“What unthinkable magic does that perform?” she asked.

He unsheathed it halfway, the firelight thrown around by the prism of his glass blade. “It cuts through most materials with the ease of chopping through paper. If it breaks, a cataclysmic explosion spawns at the point of fracture.”

His eyes darted to hers, twinkling.

“A joke?” she asked

A wry smile. “Only partly.”

She snorted. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me which part?”

“You will have to find out for yourself.”

The quiet returned, and Riven started thinking about the helmet and what she’d seen. She wondered if any of the other Masters possessed the technology Yi utilized, to see into other dimensions. He’d called the piece of equipment a “marvel of techmaturgy,” and she assumed it was one of a kind.

That would infer that the previous Master Yi had worn the helmet to battle. She was too curious not to ask.

“Is that helmet yours?” she asked, and when his brow raised questioningly, she reiterated, “That helmet. Are you the first Yi to use it, or was it passed down?”

Wisps of wistful longing clouded his eyes, and her question had such an effect it startled her. She hadn’t witnessed him grow so plaintive since she’d asked about his village. He covered it up with a smile though, because he couldn’t appear anything but confident before his pupil.

“No. This is mine. The previous Master had his own goggles…” He trailed off, staring into the fire.

“Who was the previous Master Yi?” she asked tentatively.

He thought for a moment. “A better man than I could ever aspire to be.”

“That’s a bold statement. I’m not sure I know many men better than you, Yi,” she said, and she meant it.

He brushed it off with a smile. “The compliment is appreciated. But you needed to meet him to truly understand me when I say this man was like few others. He was patient, and strong, and he said few words but the words he said were backed by careful thought and genuine interest. Honestly,” he looked up from the fire, “he reminds me of you.”

She nodded.

He grinned from a happy memory. “And he could wield a staff like no other. I could best him in swordplay, but not I nor anyone that lived could defeat him when his monk’s spade was in his grasp.”

He didn’t continue on his own, so Riven asked, “What became of him?”

“He was among the casualties of my village.”

But Riven’s instinct told otherwise, or that he wasn’t telling the entire truth; Yi was a master of stoicism as well as bladed weapons, but several years of sleeping in the same house as him had familiarized her with his body language enough to know that he was staring at the fire with too much interest.

However, Riven didn’t push. She knew the truth must be difficult if Noxian Melters were involved, so she remained silent.

Yi stood, his sheathed weapon in one hand and his helmet in the other. “I’m going to get some sleep, and I’d advise you to do the same.”

“Goodnight,” she called after him as the tent flap fluttered.

“And a peaceful night’s rest for you,” he said.

A peaceful night’s rest. She hadn’t seen him for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll see you guys next chapter!


	16. Master Yi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the constant support, and for all you've done to help me. Please enjoy!

**4 Years Ago**

 

Highlander spiraled from Yi’s grasp, whipped expertly by the flat edge of darksteel, and clattered to the rooftop many strides away. An excellent move he hadn’t seen coming, following up on what looked like a feint.

He was still unused to the feel of cold steel against his throat, but he’d had plenty of practice in the past months. At one point in the far past, he’d devised a series of moves for escaping a situation like this, and he’d recently put them through rigorous testing. He could confidently say that half of his custom move set was flashy bullshit.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy this,” Riven said, loose hairs strewn all over her forehead. She blew air from the corner of her mouth, but it only made it worse.

“Perhaps,” he said, the yellow targeting reticule focusing Highlander at the edge of his peripheral, and they both knew what he was going to do. “Or perhaps I-.”

The rift between worlds pulled him through, and the freezing cold of The Void welcomed him. The static of Voidling speech droned on in his headset, and he looked around the dreary purple-greyness of his surroundings. He had a limited amount of time, only about twelve seconds, and the antennae’s battery held only enough warp magic for four charges before he had to refuel in his home dimension.

Where there was the slanted rooftop of the cottage in his world, there was a boulder of approximately the same shape in The Void. On the display, he commanded a real-time image of his world to translucently overlap his vision, and when he looked up the rock, a phantom of Highlander rested a few strides away. He walked briskly up the incline, and stooped.

The static disappeared, and the moment he was through, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his weapon.

_Behind._

He launched forward through the portal, and when he turned back, a ghost of Riven stood perfectly still, charging where he’d just been. After a quick judgment of angle, he decided to come in from behind and to the left, and he took up position.

Highlander was already in motion when the rift sucked him through, a wide horizontal aimed for her lower back.

Riven rolled forward, and he repositioned in front of her. Another horizontal at her throat, and the static disappeared from his earphones when he emerged with weapon swinging. It glanced off her blade in the nick of time, and he dove into The Void.

But a strong hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him from the world of static, tossing him through the air. He hit the roof, tumbling off the edge and landing nimbly on the ground, rolling to make distance.

_Above._

The warning came too late; he was just regaining his feet when Riven sailed through the air and slammed the ground. Green cracked like thunder, and he was airborne again, landing gracelessly on his back.

They were in the field behind the cottage, the stalks of budding grass murmuring secrets to Yi, but they were nothing he didn’t already know, so he stood and faced his pupil. She was upon him in an instant, and he had a mere two seconds to wipe the flecks of dirt from his optics.

Her first strike knocked his weapon high out of line, exposing his lower torso.

Her second strike was her fist into his stomach, and he grunted, stooped and stunned by his bruised solar plexus.

Her third strike bound his blade with hers, and her knee hurtled into his wrist at just the right angle to stimulate the nerves and torque his weapon out of hand. Highlander dropped pitifully to the ground, and Yi stood there without a weapon.

He didn’t make a move; he was unarmed and Riven wasn’t. A direct attack was suicide.

A challenge surfaced in Riven’s crimson eyes, because she knew what he was going to attempt.

Mischief pulled his lips into a grin as the yellow crosshair focused on the glowing blade laying beneath her feet. His helmet blinked, and a vertical bar on the digital screen was three-quarters full; three charges.

He blinked into The Void, presented with a motionless image of Riven. Reappearing from the front was obviously not plausible, and she was too wary to be taken by surprise from either the left or the right.

So he walked behind her, crouched, and reached through her legs, hand hovering over the handle. The split second he emerged wasn’t enough time for her to stop him, and when he repositioned at her right and jumped through the portal with weapon readied, all she could do was deflect his blade.

But when he used his last charge and returned to Runeterra, Riven’s heel was arcing toward his head. It might’ve killed him had his helmet not been built to withstand stronger blows, but he felt himself fade into unconsciousness for a few seconds, and the grass made a nice cushion for his fall.

His eyelids fluttered open, and Riven was standing uncertainly a couple strides away. His joints complained as pushed himself from the ground, but they always complained, so he ignored them. He pulled himself to a kneel, clutching Highlander and waiting for his focus to return. Riven’s brow furrowed in concern.

He grinned, spat into dirt, and said, “You’ll have to try a little harder than that to kill me.”

For the next two hours, she proved him wrong again and again and again. Battling across the boughs of trees, fighting through the spacious field, and skirmishing through the city of ash.

Always three strikes, then a masterful disarm or more cold steel to the throat. Always fast and unpredictable, her fists and feet and elbows and knees all as lethal as her blade, but still fluid like water in a brook or wind through a canyon, with every strike flowing gracefully into the next.

Yi had always wondered what a combination of Noxian and Ionian styles would look like. _Terrifying_ was the answer.

When the sun dipped below the tree line, Yi raised an open palm, and Riven nodded her head.

As they walked down the dusty trail with dirt smudging their cheeks and scrapes and bruises littering Yi’s aching body, he gazed at the husk of a village and remembered that the war was still raging. A depressing thought, but it would be over soon. For him, at least.

There were several things that needed doing before night arrived, and many, if not all, of it revolved around his pupil beside him.

“Riven?”

The evening sun cast a dazzling light upon her face, her snowy hair brilliantly reflecting the rays. Whatever woman- she’d never disclosed or even faintly hinted at her sexuality, but her body language and her speaking patterns and the fact that she’d slept in a tent with a man she didn’t know and hadn’t raised a fuss clued him in- whatever woman caught her heart would be an incredibly lucky individual.

“Yes, Master?”

“I did tell you not to call me that, didn’t I?”

“You also said longer hair suited me, but I won’t be doing that any time soon.”

He grinned. “You won’t be certain until you try it.”

“You could say the same thing about death.”

“Were you this morbid before we met?”

She snorted. “I’m realistic, not morbid.”

“Bah!” he said. “That’s what all fatalists say.”

She shook her head in response, but he glimpsed a small smile.

He cleared his throat. “I need to thank you.”

“What for?”

“You have provided me insight to the Noxian cause, but most importantly you have been a wonderful friend to an old man.” He looked her in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“You aren’t that old,” she said.

His gaze crawled across the village rooftops, remembering how calamitous the place used to be. “I’m nearing fifty. Conventionally, I should be halfway through my life, but as a warrior who has seen many battles? Aye, fifty is old, indeed. And it has been a good fifty years, the past few a silver lining to a tragedy, and for the good times, I thank you.”

She nodded slowly, frowning. “You speak like we will part soon.”

“I have taught you all I know; there is nothing left for you here. Just bodies that need burying, but I can handle that myself,” he lied.

She nodded again, but her eyes lingered on him when she turned away.

The cottage door opened, and when he snapped, the lanterns and the candles illuminated the darkness. The interior was cool, and smelled of incense and the flowers in the pots hanging from the open windows.  

“Stew or steak?” he asked.

“Why not put the steak in the stew?”

He grinned, soaping down his grimy hands in the water basin. “An excellent idea.”

 

** ooooo **

 

The world was calm beneath the moon. A pleasant breeze that wasn’t too cold or persistent, and a clear night’s sky.

Meditation was easy in such a calm world, and Yi delved into peace the first moment he could. Sitting at the mouth of the gravel path to the door, dressed in armor. The seven optics of his goggles glowed and Highlander was bright white and alive and levitating before his eyes, but his eyes were closed. He’d delved into peace the first moment he could, and he intended to stay there as long as possible.

He was coming. A Vision while he meditated years ago; He would come tonight, and Yi would face him.

Riven was in the city, sent to the farthest reaches on some errand he’d concocted. Gathering seeds from the ashes of the dead because the most potent life sprouted from destruction, or some other bullshit rhetoric he’d imagined.

Riven was sent away because He was coming.

Yi knew it was likely useless to hide her from Him, because the Vision had shown him that, but Visions were only possible outcomes that could be altered. If Yi could prevent Him from finding her, he would do anything he could to ensure her safety. But if he couldn’t avert that, he’d spent the last four years preparing her for this moment and everything that came after. She’d be okay no matter what happened.

After all, Riven still had a purpose to fulfill.

And here, beneath the dragon and the mouse, so did Yi.

The bodies were buried in a field of flowers.

The cottage was arranged to be taken care of.

Riven was trained with four years of Wuju.

Everything was in place.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

All was peaceful for a while, the world he’d built ticking on with time. The cottage loomed behind him, the field of flowers behind that, and Yi realized that he’d built all of it with his bare hands. All of this was his world. A comforting thought.

The crickets’ chirping ceased. The breeze died. Footsteps.

A dark figure walking on wooden sandals approached from the village road. Not Riven. The shoulders were too wide, the stance too tall, the gait too ominous. No, this wasn’t Riven; it was fate coming to collect its dues in the guise of a man he knew.

He was here.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Yi took Highlander into his hands and stood, waiting for Him to arrive. Even in the night, Yi could see that everything about the man was blue. His clothing was a deep-sea blue and billowed like it too, His endlessly undulating cloak was an indigo blue, His skin that wasn’t bandaged was a pale, pale blue, even His demeanor was a sad, somber blue. Only the straw hat tilted over His eyes and the beaded necklace weren’t blue.

And the monk’s spade, two silver crescents parallel with the spearhead; that wasn’t blue either.

He stopped twenty strides away. Silence for a while, and Yi noticed that His shoulders didn’t rise and fall with breath, and that his goggles hadn’t detected a heat signature.

“You’re here for me, correct?” Yi said.

Heavy and booming. Gruff. “I’m here to finish what I started.”

Yi nodded once. “After all these years… Why now? Of all the times to collect, why do you choose now?”

“You know damn well why,” He seethed.

“I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

“You’ve grown soft,” He said, low and menacing. “I’ve watched you. You drag that _pig_ around like deserves anything else but a cut throat.”

Yi bristled, lip curled. “That _pig_ is no more Noxian than you are sane, and she is more deserving of my attention than anyone.”

An uproar, explosively loud. “She is Noxian you fool! _Noxian!_ Look what she did to me!”

He tore the gauze from his hand and held it for Yi to see, but Yi had already seen how the chemicals had dyed His skin blue, how the chemicals had grotesquely fused the index to the middle finger and the ring to the pinky finger until it looked like he had only three digits total.

“This is the legacy you wish to leave?! To have that _pig_ transform you into a monster?!” He shouted.

“The only monster present is you,” Yi said coolly.

He grunted, and the brim of his straw hat tipped up just enough so Yi could see His seven, emerald eyes. He studied Yi, and Yi didn’t twitch a muscle.

The accusation was loud, gargled like He was choking. “You _love_ her!”

“Yes,” Yi said, “as a father loves his daughter. As you once loved me.”

“You…” He trailed off, “You are a fool. An incompetent _fool!_ ”

Yi recognized it instantly, smirking in disbelief. “You’re jealous.” Yi shook his head. “You are a different man. A very different man.”

He didn’t respond.

Yi shook his head. His weapon crackled to life, white crystal blazing in the night. “But enough. The time for talk has passed.”

He twirled his spear. “On that, and only that, do we agree.”

As they had before the war, before the attack, before the massacre, before everything, they poised for battle. Yi inhaled; it was a good night for a duel.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven sprinted with the wind at her back, headed toward the cottage. The clash of blades echoed through the alleys and the streets, and the fact that it hadn’t ended yet was worrisome on its own. Noxian scouts were her first guess, and she prepared herself for a fight.

She saw no Noxian colors when she rounded the corner, not so much as a hint of red or black. What she did see was a swelling storm of blue encasing a yellow thunderbolt that cracked and darted and fizzled. Locked in battle, and Riven ran.

She was thirty strides away when the blue figure skewered the lightning bolt.

Yi didn’t make sound, didn’t scream in agony, but Riven did.

The blue figure turned its head toward her, and she saw beneath the brim of his hat his seven green eyes staring. The figure looked to Yi, who’d fallen to a knee. He froze. Riven stepped forward, and the figure hurtled away, off into the city center.

Chase him. Chase him down and make him squeal, but Yi was hurt and needed attention, so she rushed to where he kneeled.

He collapsed just as she arrived, and she caught him just before he hit the gravel. Left hand supporting his head and neck, right desperately applying pressure to the stab wound that fountained crimson down his golden tunic. And even though it was ultimately futile, blood seeping through her fingers and pouring onto her thighs.

He scratched at his helmet, and Riven carefully removed it, revealing his deathly pale face and his wild hair.

Yi coughed, scarlet spattering Riven’s face, but she didn’t care. Her only friend was dying.

In through the nose, out through mouth, but she could barely draw breath.

“What happened? Who was that man?” Yi struggled to breathe, eyes limply shut. “Master? Yi?!”

“No,” he spluttered, voice thick with the blood in his throat, “no…”

“No? No, what?” Riven asked, shaking him lightly, “What are you saying? I can’t-!”

He raised a finger, and pushed it to his chest. “Icharou…”

Riven’s brow furrowed, and then she shook her head vigorously, leaning in so he could hear her better. “Icharou? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

He slowly nodded his head. His finger raised again, and he lay it over her hammering heart. “You…”

“I what?” she asked, leaning her ear in.

“Master,” he whispered, “… You are… Master Yi, now…”

Her eyes widened, stomach churning. “What-… No, I can’t- I can’t-!”

“Not up for negotiation…” he mumbled.

“I can’t- I can’t-…” she said, because that would imply that Icharou wasn’t going to make it, and she couldn’t stand that thought.

“You can…” he said, coughing lightly.

Her eyes stung, her throat tight. “Please don’t go,” she begged, and she knew it was useless, but the world was so much more frightening without a friend. “Please…”

“You’re stronger-,” he winced, but he maintained a controlled descent, “You’re strong. So much stronger… than you think you are…”

Not strong enough. She knew that; she wasn’t strong enough to brave the world alone.

Even with his eyes mostly closed, he still saw her hesitation.

“In four years-,” he winced again, and so did Riven, because seeing a loved one in pain was a torture all on its own, “You’ve accomp… accomplished, in four years, what took me… took me my whole, damn, life. You’re so strong…”

He was fading, body slackening and riven squeezed her eyes shut because she didn’t want to cry in front of him. Even after all the times she’d wept before him, she still didn’t want him to see her cry.

A warm, wet palm cupped her face and she opened her eyes. Yi’s eyes were open- glassy, but open- and he was staring warmly at her with whatever part of a smile he could muster. A tear dripped down her cheek, and his thumb brushed it away.

In through the nose, but she couldn’t even do that.

She reached up and overlaid her hand upon his.

“The nightmares…” his voice was so soft, “will disappear… I promise you, Riven… They will disappear. But first, you… you must become… stronger.”

The blood leaking from his chest had lessened in severity, but it was from lack of blood to leak.

His hand, calloused from a life of warrior’s work, was so soft and gentle against her face.

“Now go… Master Yi,” he whispered, “Go… become… _stronger_ …”

His eyes shut. His hand limped.

He released one last breath that whispered across the fields and through the forests and through all the alleyways.

And then, Icharou stilled.

Riven tried to breathe, but she couldn’t. Instead, she wept into his shoulder until all her tars soaked his tunic.

 

**ooooo**

 

The man hadn’t run far before Riven found him. He stood in the middle of the street, footsteps tracking through the ashes and the soot. He faced the full moon, his head tilted upward as he stared at the stars, the pale light rolling down his cloak like water down a waxed blade. As Riven approached, he didn’t react, and she stopped with a healthy distance between them.

The wind howled.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the man said, “I would’ve let you be, but now I have to kill you.”

“You may try,” she said, eyes crimson like blood.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He turned, cloak billowing, the brim of his straw hat dipped low over his face.

“Who are you?” Riven asked, watching his body language, noticing how scarlet dripped from the crescents of his spear.

“He didn’t tell you?” he asked, his Ionian so perfect he must be local. The brim of his straw hat raised just enough so that Riven could clearly see his seven glowing eyes.

_Optics_. Seven glowing optics. A monk’s spade clutched in his hand, disfigured from Noxian alchemy.

“You’re Master Yi,” she said, a statement and not a question.

He grunted. “I guess the pig is smarter than I thought.”

No reaction from Riven. Slurs were a part of her life, and if Master Yi- the fake Master Yi- thought he could excite her, he had another thing coming.

“Why did you do this?” she asked.

“You,” he said maliciously.

“Because he sheltered a Noxian,” Riven inferred.

He didn’t reply, his optics glaring.

And Riven glared right back. The wind whipped her ashen locks into her face, raised a cloud of soot and dirt, and goosebumps spread across her flesh. The grip of her weapon was smudged with blood, but she knew nothing would tear it from her grasp.

Not when her fingers almost splintered the handle. Not when her blood was so icy cold and her eyes so starkly _red_.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She was going to kill this man.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“He spoke greatly of you, you know,” Riven said. “He said you were wise, patient, a man of few words. A paragon that everyone aspired to be. But now, with his blood on your blade, I see none of that.

He twirled his weapon with his disfigured fingers. “Did he speak of my combat prowess?” he asked.

Her stance widened. “You were undefeatable with a spade.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“He was right.”

_Above._

The man launched himself with impossible speed, soaring through the air like an arrow, pike coiled to strike. Riven sidestepped, and spun.

Her heel swung around into his abdomen, and he should’ve been dead because she’d not only stopped him cold, she’d sent him flying the other way. But he only rolled backwards to his feet, seemingly unperturbed.

Riven sprinted straight toward him.

He thrust, but she’d seen his stance, and she sidestepped.

He thrust again, a short jab to keep her out of range, but she sidestepped the other way.

He spun low, staff sweeping in a wide circle to knock her feet out from under her, but she was too fast to be fooled like that. She jumped forward, the staff whiffing the ground beneath her flying feet, and her knee sailed into his face.

He stumbled backward, three of the center optics flickering, his straw hat floating to the sooty floor. Clutching his face, trying to remain on his feet. She dove in, but-.

_Faint._

-Riven ducked as the silver crescents skewered the air inches above her head.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She was calm. Her heart hammered, her eyes glaring with murderous intent, and her teeth grit, but she was calm. She was calm because she knew that then, as the bloodstained spear soared above her head, as flecks of Yi’s blood fell from the crescents and spattered her face; she knew what her purpose was.

Kill him. Because he’d killed Yi. Because he’d killed her chance of being anything but an angry, vengeful soul.

For the first strike, she swept at his legs, but he jumped like he knew what she was going to do, and he did. Because he was a Wuju master.

On her knees for her second, she thrust at his stomach, but he batted her blade aside.

For her third, she stood, windmilling her weapon up and around and slicing a downward vertical that would cut him in two. The wood of his staff was either enchanted or made of Freljord ironwood, because when he raised his staff high and blocked her blow, the spear merely bent instead of breaking.

Weapons bound high, they both had the same idea; Riven kicked at him at the same time he did to her, feet slamming into abdomens. Knocked back by unequal proportions; the man still staggered by the time Riven had rushed him, and she knew his stupor was real.

Her pulse raced alongside her as her feet pounded the few steps to him, eyes locked on his spear, instinct poised like her blade.

He thrust meagerly, a final attempt to keep her at bay, but it was slower and less coordinated than the others, and she deflected it out of her path with ease.

She roared as her darksteel blade sank to the hilt into his chest, black blood spilling down his blue robes. Pierced his heart, and as he bled, she looked into his optics with a snarl.

But Master Yi did not die.

His palm strike to her chest knocked her back, and she scrambled for a plan, eyes darting over his figure and now that she was within reaching distance, she could see the lacerations through his blue robe, threads singed like they were made by something hot.

Invincible. The chemicals had transmogrified him into something less than human, or maybe something more.  

Her blood turned cold, her cold eyes red as blood. Icharou didn’t have a chance.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She was calm. She was twitching but she was calm. Wide eyed, hands trembling, teeth gnashing, but she was calm.

He thrust, and she deflected.

He swung a wide horizontal that would spill her intestines if it connected, but she flipped over the staff, rolling midair, and when she landed, she struck the ground with enough force to trigger an earthquake.

The green explosion heaved the man off his feet, soaring like a comet, landing like a meteor. Black clouds of ash and soot agitated in the man’s wake as he skidded painfully across the cobblestone road, fingers scratching at the ground as he rolled to a kneel.

He looked up, and Riven was already there.

He looked down, and Riven’s blade was already there.

Skin smoldering emerald, a cyclone swirling her hair and fluttering his cloak, she stared into his goggles while her reforged Windblade ran him through completely. No one moved but the blustery wind, no attempt to unstick himself. Standing still as a statues, because she hoped he could see the hate in her eyes. Hoped he could see that he’d taken away what little hope she had left.

He looked at his hands, watching them gradually disintegrate into ash. First his hands, then his wrists, then his arms, and when the top of his bald head blew away into ash, he looked at her through the goggles.

A voice that wasn’t the same voice he’d spoken in, deep and articulate, even through the gurgling. As the goggles slipped down his face that rotted away, he spoke.

“I’m so sorry.”

And then he was ash in the wind, and Riven was a fool with a sword too big for her. A fool for thinking the peace could last.

 

**ooooo**

 

She buried Yi- _Icharou_ \- in the field of flowers. A spot where the sun always shined.

She buried him with his goggles because they were inseparable, and she couldn’t think of Yi without thinking of his seven yellow optics.

She buried him with a seed, and though she wanted to give him every seed she could muster, he was humble and he wouldn’t approve of such an overt display.

She buried him with her tears watering his grave, and though she wanted to stay by his side, he would tell her that wallowing in grief was no way to live.

She buried the greatest man she ever knew and stuck his sword into the dirt as a gravemarker, and though she felt an obligation to stay and look after the cottage, she did what he wanted her to do.

She buried Yi in the field of flowers, and then she left the cottage, left Ionia, because it was time to move on. It was time to grow stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always worry when I kill off big names in my stories. I hope I haven't scared you off, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	17. Kill to Run, Run to Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story! I worry that I scare off reader whenever I kill off a major character, so I appreciate that you all continued to read. Please enjoy!

**4 Years Ago**

 

Nothing. Four goddamn years of scouring the continent for traces of a red-eyed, white-haired, Noxian woman and all he had to show for his effort was a few scattered reports of someone that matched her description, and none of the timeframes of the sightings were possible; how could she stalk the jungles of Kumungu one day, and then on the very next day travel hundreds of miles to roam the streets of Piltover?

There were too many Noxian women in the world. Too many _Noxians_ in the world, as far as he was concerned.

He tried to wipe the exhaustion from his face with his hands, but it accomplished nothing. The trek from the marshes of Kaladoun back to Ionia had been taxing, and the rickety schooner that’d deposited him at the shore’s edge was neither comfortable nor structurally sound, so half of his sleep had been him lying awake and hoping the boards of the hull would stop leaking water.

But he was in Ionia again, back on familiar territory. With nowhere left to search, he had to assume she was either dead, or she’d returned to Noxus, and he didn’t know which of the two possibilities scared him more. Death by anything but his blade was so unfair and unjust, and he had to believe Yone didn’t die without reason.

He wasn’t looking forward crossing the front. They said the bodies piled so high, they were indistinguishable from mountains from a distance. A tall tale, surely, but all tales were rooted in fact, and he harbored no doubts that there was no shortage of corpses.

The fire he’d stoked all night was nothing but smoldering coals now, a wispy tail of smoke winding up through the shady canopy of jungle trees above. The waves crashed and hissed to his left, and the jungle forest chirped and growled to his right. On the fringe of where the thick grass morphed into sandy beach was where he sat, and he looked out over the beach, out over the ocean.

He liked to think the ocean was his friend, but he knew this to be untrue; the ocean had tried to drown him many times on his journey, and what kind of friend does that? No friend of his.

So they kept their respectful distance, and he was just fine with that.

His bedroll was rolled, and his lean-to hut was free of any evidence as to who he was. He was a wanted criminal, after all, and from now on, he’d need to avoid densely populated areas. The way forward was south, through the Ionian defenses, across No Man’s Land, and through the Noxian front lines.

From there, he would search with light footsteps and his hand hovering over the hilt, traveling through shadow until he found her. Or until he found her fate. And then…

He didn’t know. His family hated him, his country hated him, _everyone_ hated him. The sentence for his failures was death, and he would find no solitude if his clan kept hunting him. It seemed that his life would forever be one of running.

And he enjoyed running, savored the whisper of the wind as he sliced through it like a knife, his feet ghosting over the grass and the leaves and the dirt, but he didn’t enjoy this. This game where his friends drew blades on him, and he had to draw his on them simply to witness the next dawn’s glow. This game of cat and mouse where he was the cat but the mouse was fast as a spooked horse.

Kill to run, and run to kill. A vicious cycle.

He stood and smothered the embers, retrieving his bedroll and scanning the remnants of the camp for any clues as to who he was. No scraps of cloth, no litter, nothing incriminating. Only prints of bare feet in the sand and the soil, but even they were light and unnoticeable. He blew through his mouth, and a gust of seasalty wind disturbed the sparkling sand until the beach was a smooth and unblemished sheet of gold.

A hunter that left a trail to follow was not a skilled hunter, Yasuo thought.

Verdant stalks of bamboo were his only company as he trekked through the jungle. Everything was green and tall and lush, and he was uncomfortably aware of how stubbornly his sky-blue cowl refused to blend in with his surroundings. He considered adopting camouflage to avoid detection, but he was far from where the hunting patrols of the nearby clans would be at this time of the year. There was plenty of game to the north where Ionia wouldn’t have to compete with Noxus over hunting grounds, so he brushed his paranoia aside.

He hoped to be halfway to the front by nightfall if no other complications arose, but he knew there always were. He cut his estimated distance by half, and called it even.

The forest was wet, leafy, and overwhelmingly green. Despite the blood flooding her soil, Runeterra had blessed them all with a bountiful spring and easy crops. The ground was moist, but not so severely that his feet sank into mud, and the damp moss that layered the ground and crawled up boulders and tree trunks squished pleasantly between his bare toes. The sky through the leaves above was clear and bright, an agreeable wind bathing his shoulders with smells of the forest, of dew and wood and grass and blood...

He halted and sniffed the air, then did it again to be certain. Blood. Human blood, because he could smell the difference between a human and any other type.

He crouched low to the ground, hand on the grip of his weapon in his bedroll. The wind carried the scent from somewhere ahead of him, dissipated from distance, but the fact that he could still smell told him it wasn’t that far. Eyes swept the foliage around him, and he made his way forward.

Someone was prey for a predator of the forest most likely, but he didn’t smell the musk of a wolf pack. He rolled his shoulders.

The scent was strong now, and he could see sunlight peeking through the trunks ahead. A dozen cautious steps later, and he was skulking the edge of a clearing. Wide and mostly flat, the clearing looked to be untouched by human settlement, and the grass was short and choppy in places where wildlife grazed.

A body lay face down near the far edge of the clearing. The only sound was the trickle of a nearby brook. No birdcalls, no rustle of rodents through the underbrush; whoever killed the person had scared everything away, and they were probably still around.

It was _who_ ever, rather than _what_ , because even from this distance, he could clearly see the arrow shaft protruding from their neck. A sniper.

Ears hypersensitive, he methodically surveyed the trunks on the far side, then scanned the leaves above for anyone perched in the boughs. He did it once more, then twice before he determined that if the threat was still present, he couldn’t see them. Crouched, he slowly picked his way around the perimeter.

This patience wasn’t an inherited trait. It was a skill he’d adopted over a long period of throwing looks over his shoulder for predators, an evolution of his character. No longer did he brashly throw himself into battle.

Well, he still did that, but only when victory was guaranteed. And amidst the leafy bushes that scratched over his bare skin, victory was not guaranteed, in part contributed the fact that he didn’t possess a means of ranged combat.

He was a shitty shot, always had been. His knack was with the blade, not with the bow, and while some skill with arrow slinging would aid him greatly on his journey, he had no time to sit around and take potshots at a grain sack painted with a bullseye. So he stuck to the trees, weapon at the ready, eyes peeled.

No one intercepted him on his path to the other side, and when he arrived, he scanned the perimeter, closed his eyes and listened for anything. Dead silence.

Not good. He’d taken his time circumnavigating the clearing, and the wildlife had yet to repopulate the area. The killers were around, and it slightly bothered him that he couldn’t detect them. He should’ve turned tail and disappeared into the forest, but his curiosity bested his nerves. Just one quick peek.

He darted out, low to the ground, wind at his back as he approached the body.

It was a woman, figure obscured by a large, brown, nondescript overcoat, and when he turned her head, her face was covered by a bandanna. Her hair, tucked away beneath a wide-brim hat, was of ashen pallor, her eyes when he thumbed them open were red like blood, and her skin was dark, but she was not the woman he yearned to find. This woman was, however, very Noxian, and trying very hard to hide that fact.

Rigor mortis approximated her corpse to be a day and a half old, the blood in the dirt dry and crusty. He reached beneath her, rummaging through the pockets of her overcoat, and in them, he found documents. The parchment was crisp, the words written hastily by a well-educated hand, and even though he couldn’t read Urr Nox, he knew what they were. Notes on Ionian positons, military intel, situation evaluations.

The documents written in poor lighting, the attempt to hide her heritage, the lack of any real weapon on her being, her location so far behind Ionian front lines, and the arrow in the back of her neck signifying that she was running rather than fighting. She was a spy.

And then he caught a glance of the arrow for the first time. He’d missed it at first because he’d been eager to search the corpse, but now he saw the feather tied atop the shaft. Orange.

Orange for Kashuld.

“Shit.”

He looked up, but it was too late. An orange bolt struck him in his left pectoral, and he grit his teeth in pain. Reflexively, he gripped the shaft of the arrow, but he knew it was useless to pull it out. Kashuld used barbed arrows, and he would need a doctor’s knife to dig the arrowhead from his muscle.

Thankfully, Yone’s cowl had damped the blow somewhat, and the cloth clotted the wound. Blood dripped down his torso, but he paid it no attention because all his focus was on the tree line and finding the sniper.

Another bolt of orange, and he ducked just in time to avoid an arrow to the eye socket. It flew from straight ahead.

But another bolt, this time from the left of the original.

And another, much farther right.

Run. His first instinct was to run the other way, run so that he wouldn’t have to fight his brothers and sisters. But another bolt of pain through his right arm and he’d been hit from behind, and an arrow grazed his nose from the right. He could only go left.

His feet pounded, the burst of wind propelling him forward as he sprinted across the clearing. An orange bolt flew past his face, and he glanced over his shoulder. His stomach lurched when he recognized Kashuld colors emerging from the forest, arrows knocked and bowstrings pulled taut as they chased.

A spike of pain in his stomach, and he scrambled to a halt. They were in front of him now, cloaks flowing from their figures like phantoms as they advanced. A volley of orange careened toward him, completely unavoidable.

He unsheathed his blade and swiped a wide horizontal, and from the blade’s shimmering edge spawned a great gale. A wall of howling wind swept forth, catching arrows midair, sweeping up dirt and grass and the bulwark of wind slammed into the hunters. He was already hurtling the other direction as they were blown off their feet with concussive force.

He was almost to the edge of the clearing when another arrow bolted through the foliage in front of him and sliced through his cheek. A flesh wound that looked worse than it actually was, but it shocked him, and he slowed.

Slowed just enough to catch an arrow through his calf that would’ve missed if he’d kept his pace constant. He yelled and tumbled head over heels, the shafts of the other arrows torqueing painfully as he rolled to a graceless stop.

He balled his fists, grit his teeth, and pushed through the pain to stand and scurry away while he still had the chance.

An arrow between the shoulder blades, and he growled. It should’ve killed him, should’ve pierced through his skin and impaled his heart, but Yone had saved him again. He took a step forward.

Four knuckles of a fist rapped against his jaw with staggering force, and though there was a time when his stronger body could’ve glanced off such a blow, he was haggard from hunger, and he dropped to the grass like a stone. The man had blindsided him; he should’ve noticed it instead of reminiscing about the cowl.

He rolled slowly to his stomach, forehead to the ground while he swam through his fuzzy consciousness and summoned the will to stay awake. He didn’t need to raise his head to know that he was surrounded. The shuffle of grass gave them away.

He caught his breath, and then he looked up.

A ring had formed around him, his clanmates dressed in the cloaks of hunter’s garb. Bowstrings were pulled, arrows knocked and ready to loose while more of his clanmates- _ex-_ clamates caught up to them and reinforced the secure barrier of men.

He thumped his head against the ground in defeat.

“ _Damn_.”

They glared at him when he sat up. Glared like he was a dishonorable piece of filth, and maybe he was. A sudden agony erupted in his back and he shouted, tensing his muscles and trying to stay concentrated on the hunters around him.

When he refocused, one of the hunters circled around. In his hands was an arrow, the head caked in scarlet, and hot blood dripped down his spine. He tried to appear defiant. He tried to sit up straight, to produce some sort of dignity, but he was hopeless. Years of running, countless dead soldiers, and now his struggles were all futile because of one careless moment. He looked at the ground.

“Look at me,” the man said gruffly.

He only stared at the ground. There seemed to be no way out.

“ _Yasuo_.”

At that, he looked up, because years had sauntered by since he’d heard that name. He didn’t recognize the man, but the man recognized him.

The man didn’t say anything, just stared down at him with an intense disdain to his very person.

He couldn’t die here. This couldn’t be an end to his tale. Redemption. Absolution. Vindication. _That_ was his tale, not an execution in some arbitrary field north of his home.

“Please…” he said, trailing off because of lack of experience. He’d never begged, but he wanted no more blood to be spilled over something so foolish.

“Please, what?” the man asked, his nostril twitching.

“I…” he shook his head, “I don’t…”

“You don’t want to die?” the man said, lip curling. “You don’t want to face responsibility for your actions?”

No, just the opposite. Redemption and the like, that’s what he wanted. To ensure that Yone hadn’t died without purpose.

“Yasuo,” the man said, but he was already looking up at him.

“Please,” he said, because the only way out of this was more bloodshed, and he didn’t know if he had the mental fortitude to cut them all down. “I can’t… Not here, not now.”

The man shook his head resolutely. “You have run long enough, Yasuo. You’ve killed enough of your own clan. The time for this passed long ago.”

“No, wait!” he said, inching forward, praying to all the gods and goddesses above that the man would see reaon in his pleading eyes. “Please, I know who killed him! I can find her, I swear!”

“You still believe this to be about the Elder?” the man asked, incredulous and offended.

He was at a loss for words.

The man’s eyes ignited and he shouted. “This isn’t about the godsdamned Elder! This hasn’t been about the godsdamned Elder for seven years, you foolish boy!”

“Then what-?”

“You’ve slain your clan mates, Yasuo!” the man roared, his voice traveling all across the clearing and his searing glare burrowing into his sinking heart. “You’re clan mates, your friends! You’ve slain your own godsdamned _brother_ , Yasuo! Your own godsdamned brother and you still think we hunt you across the continent because you were responsible for an old man’s death?! Because of honor?!”

He was shaking.

“This hasn’t been about honor for seven years, you ignorant fool!” The man took a deep breath.

“I can- I can make this right!” he offered, but even he knew there was nothing he could do. The man was right; there was no honor in revenge. There was no honor in anything he’d done for seven years.

His next thought was: Yone died in vain.

And he just couldn’t handle that. So maybe this wasn’t about honor or restoring his family name. So maybe this wasn’t about reclaiming the life he once lived. So maybe this wasn’t about proving his innocence. No, it was none of that.

Yone was dead. His brother was dead, died in his arms from a wound inflicted from his blade because he was framed.

Framed by that woman.

“Yasuo,” the man said.

He glanced upward.

A calm resolve across the man’s face, weapon wielded with both hands. “Bow your head.”

“No.”

“ _Yasuo_.”

“I can’t,” he said hollowly. Yone was dead because she’d framed him for murder.

“Yasuo, bow your head.” He didn’t respond, staring ahead. “These are the consequences of your actions. You must accept them.”

“Please, don’t,” he said.

“This is unavoidable. You’ve brought this on yourself.”

He didn’t respond. There were many hunters in this circle, most armed with only bows, some with blades as well. Maybe he could run, and they wouldn’t ever catch him because he was too far away. Maybe he could find her before they caught up to him, and then he wouldn’t have to argue with this man.

He didn’t want to kill them. He didn’t know if he _could_ kill them. He possessed the skill and the experience, even despite the wounds that bled as he sat there, but he didn’t know if he could. Many of the faces glaring at him were familiar. How difficult was the act of killing an old friend?

He discovered his answer when the man swung.

The man was the first to die, and his eyes were wide when his target was suddenly not where he just was. The blade sliced through the man’s neck, and though he knew the man little, it still hurt.

The next was Akira, the local smartass that he’d befriended simply because Akira’s wit was as sharp as his blade. When the windswept steel cut through his chest, Yasuo felt a mirror in his heart.

Then two men he didn’t know followed Akira. He didn’t know them, didn’t know their faces or their names, but he knew what he was doing. Both men had families, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, wives, husbands, and he was taking them away from them. Though he only slashed two throats, he knew he ruptured the hearts of many. His throat tightened.

Zuko. He’d fished with the boy, once. A long time ago, when they were just boys. The man possessed incredible patience and a belief that eventually, something would bite. It may not be good, it may not be interesting, but it was better than nothing. He grit his teeth as he deflected Zuko’s arrow and ran him through the heart.

Hiro. A man of cunning intellect and an eye for archery that put many professionals to shame. A few drinks were had with Hiro to celebrate his victory in a nationwide archery contest. His blade rent through his chest, and as Hiro fell gasping in a gust of wind, he sent a prayer.

Two more men he didn’t know, more than two generations crying out in pain with them as he spattered their blood across the stalks of grass, and he realized he was a fool for thinking honor validated this needless killing.

And then he hesitated when he saw Hideaki. A childhood friend, and though they’d grown distant as he chose the path of a warrior and Hideaki the path of a hunter, the memories were still there. Fighting Bilgewater pirates as illustrious admirals with wooden swords and paper boats as their armada. Convincing Nana to slip them a few pastries from the kitchen, sharing half of his when Hideaki dropped his into the dirt. Good memories.

Hideaki looked him in the eyes as he died, and there was such an expression of betrayal, and his throat tightened, and there were more faces twisted in shock, more familiar faces falling to the ground, but he was swinging wildly at this point, wishing it would all be over soon.

When it did, when the last of his friends shuddered in the grass and died, he dropped his sword, dropped to his knees and dropped his forehead to the dirt and screamed. It hurt so much, and their dying faces were still on his mind, and some of them were spluttering.

Yone was there, too. Somehow he’d crawled from his place of resting far away and had infiltrated into his ear because he could hear him. He could see him, feel his hot blood pool in his hands.

This wasn’t honor. Honor hadn’t killed his friends and his brother.

_He_ had. Because he was framed. Because of _her_.

Because of her.

His blood roiled from hot to icy cold.

He was here because she framed him for murder.

His heart that pounded hammered for something more than grief. His palms bled because his fists were balled so strongly, and he trembled. Not with sorrow. Not with grief.

Their blood on his blade was put there by her.

He curled into a ball, teeth gnashing, fingers ripping his hair and he swore he was going to explode and tear something to pieces. He screamed again, but it was a roar that boomed through the trees. A promise for violence, a promise that he would make her pay.

Yone was dead because of her.

No, this wasn’t for honor. This wasn’t redemption, or absolution, or vindication, or whatever bullshit he’d drummed up to keep himself in check. This was anger. This was bloody fury, incoherent rage at the unfairness of it all.

This was revenge.

He would kill her. To hell with the trial, to hell with his innocence. He wouldn’t cart her back to his home to free his name from guilt. He was guilty enough as it was; his guilt was pooling in the grass beside him, spluttering and dying.

He would kill her. Make her squeal first, make her feel the pain in his chest and in his stinging eyes, and then, when she was _begging_ to die, he would kill her with the same blade that killed so many others.

Revenge. For Yone, who died seven years ago in a lonely field much like this one. For Yasuo, who died with him.

He’d done plenty of running; now it was time to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you all in the next chapter!


	18. The Shining Beacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

**1 Year Ago**

 

If Demacia was anything like legend, it would be a paradise of wealth and prosperity, a land where righteous honor constantly clashed with the evils of Runeterra (read: Noxus). Streets paved with silver and citizens with hearts of gold, a utopia where the working man only toiled for five days a week and the weekends were always celebrated.

It was, in Icharou’s words, _bullshit_. But whatever sounded inviting for the tourists, Riven supposed.

The capital city sat on the seashore, a preview of towering spires visible from outside the bulwark that encircled the border. The fortifications were intimidatingly immense, white, sandy brick yellowed by time soaring so high that Riven had to crane her neck to see the parapets atop. Rugged, defiant, and boisterous, like every Demacian she’d ever known.

Rolling hills of white dust and dirt extensively marked with sweeping patches of grass and scraggly underbrush stretched as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t very far, because the land was heavily scarred by canyons and embossed by numerous mesas with ivory cliff faces. There was a sprinkling of houses and a few centers of trade just beside the moat, a small community outside of the main city.

Demacia was… not Riven’s first choice for a select list of reasons, but seeing as she’d already experienced most everything else Valoran had to offer, the shining city on the sea remained the only location she hadn’t thoroughly explored. So she’d trekked through valleys and deserts until a smooth stone bridge was all that segregated her from the city.

That, and the armored platoon of guards advancing across the moat. Their plate armor sparkled beneath the sun, their sky blue cloaks surging down their broad shoulders, the blades of their pikes bobbing to the rhythm of their synchronized footsteps. Riven watched them clamber over the bridge in two rows of eight, with a captain out front leading the measured march.

They halted noisily before her, and Riven waited for the point man to speak. She didn’t think they’d attack her, but her hand was quick and ready to draw if need be.

“State your business!” the man shouted proudly, but he didn’t need to because he was only strides away. His Noxian was heavily accented, but not so much so that she couldn’t understand.

“I mean harm to no one,” she said coolly in Demacian, “I merely wish to explore this fine city of yours.”

The captain’s eyes scanned her through the slit of his helmet. “How do I know you speak the truth?”

“You do not until I walk through the doors,” she admitted. “But there are seventeen of you and only one of me. Surely, you can easily subdue me if I cause trouble?”

He stared with suspicion, and his men behind him didn’t seem so eager to test her theory. He glanced to her waistband. “Hand me your weapon, if that’s the case.”

She shook her head. “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“Then _I_ am afraid that I can’t allow you access to the city,” he said, standing taller.

She examined their eyes through the slots in their helmets. Mistrust. Skepticism. She snorted, amused. “Because I am Noxian?”

He hesitated, but stood resolute. “Because you pose a direct threat to the population of this city.”

So, because she was Noxian. That was her first reservation about the shining city. “I am no more Noxian than you are, friend.”

His lip curled. “I’m not your friend. Who are you? What’s your name?”

Not a moment of hesitation. “I am known as Master Yi. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

His attempt to hide his shock was a grumble and a frown. “… My apologies, Master. I didn’t know…” he trailed off, so she finished his sentence for him.

“That Yi has dark skin? That Yi is a woman?” The uncomfortable shuffle that resonated down the line told her she’d hit the mark. “There are many things you do not know, captain. Many things you do not want to know. Let me through, and I won’t have to show you.”

A second of thought, and he nodded his consent. “Follow me, ma’am.”

“As you wish, captain.”

 

**ooooo**

 

Chalky white, the color of everything inside the bulwark. The immaculate walls of castles, the sculpted marble pillars of temples and offices of the law. The walkways cleared of litter by sanitation workers, the spires rocketing to the sky. The sheer faces of cliff sides as the land cut off abruptly into sea, and the faces of the people themselves. All chalky white.

There was color amidst the white, too, the auburn-tiled rooves of towers, and the lush green grass of spacious courtyards. The soft, blue banners flapping from flagpoles atop spires and tapestries dripping down the high walls like a spilled palette of paint down a canvas. The colorful marquees of curio shops and the rich, luxurious purple of ritzy restaurants.

A city for the rich and the pure, and Riven felt so out of place with her dark complexion and her colorless wardrobe and her near-empty wallet.

Riven walked for a while, eyes dancing over horse-drawn carriages and the wealth of Demacians performing their daily civic duty, and the wealth of Demacians in general. She might come across trouble when looking for odd jobs, she realized, but just as every other instance of turmoil, she would manage regardless.

She meandered down the stairways and through tunnels until she arrived at one of the largest harbors she’d ever laid eyes upon, second only to Bilgewater. Schooners and yachts and battleships all shared the same ports, a veritable jungle of wooden masts, tangled clusters of rope, and sweeping sails. Riven had spied several belonging to Demacia’s navy, but she suspected they were there to catch any ships attempting to avoid the docking fee.

An onset of hunger pangs befell her as she toured the beach, and she searched down a place to eat that had a view of the ocean and prices that she could somewhat afford. A café was her answer, tucked away in a cluster of other modest businesses that sat on a bluff just a few blocks from the beach. From her seat on the patio, Riven could see over the rooves and smoking chimneys, and could leisurely enjoy the foam of breaking waves.

A sandwich on a croissant was her order, and though hunger still gnawed at her stomach, she pushed it out of mind. She still required coin for lodging, and she couldn’t imagine anything other than a mat in the corner of an alley being cheap.

However, that point may be moot, because her waitress, a cute little thing with long, brunette hair was flirting with her, and that had Riven baffled.

Because Riven was of Noxian heritage, and she expected exactly the opposite kind of treatment. Because Riven’s arms were bandaged like a victim of a horrible sickness, despite her attempts to hide them beneath long sleeves. But most importantly, because she’d been warned that homosexual relationships were frowned upon in Demacia.

So suffice to say that when the waitress smiled coyly after listing herself as one of the deserts on the menu, Riven’s eyes darted nervously to any onlookers while her face remained in its normal, casually indifferent state.

“I apologize,” Riven said, “Could you repeat that last item? I believe I misheard you.”

The waitress winked, eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt, and she said, “You heard what I said. Is this something that interests you?”

She carried the accent that all the blue bloods spoke with, and Riven wondered why, if this woman was of noble heritage, she was waiting tables for money. Thankfully, the woman also spoke Demacian as well as the tongue of the rich, Higher Demacian.

“I will mull it over,” she said.

“Not for too long, I hope,” the waitress said, and when she sauntered away, Riven found difficulty in staring at anything but the woman’s shapely rear clad in a pencil skirt.

She hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in ages, seeing as the road was lonely and dangerous, and that with the current state of affairs, Noxians weren’t exactly in high demand. However, she preferred not to make this decision with her hormones, and she considered the advice she’d received about Demacian culture. She was hated enough as it was; she wasn’t eager for more balking glares thrown her way.

But…

Lodging was expensive, and she was genuinely concerned about where she would sleep that night. As the waves crashed in the distance and as the hum of passing conversation droned on, she made her decision.

She fished the appropriate payment from her satchel, the waitress returned with an expectant stare.

“Can I serve you?” the waitress asked.

Riven smiled. “I think I would enjoy that very much.”

Without a moment to spare, the woman whipped out a piece of paper and placed it elegantly in front of her. A tantalizing smirk, and she leaned so close, Riven could feel the woman’s breath against her ear. “You will, chérie.”

She stood, and Riven watched her flip her hair and walk confidently away. She noticed the coin still lay upon the table, and she was about to call after her but her eyes caught the message scribbled on the note: “ _This one is on the house,_ ” signed, “ _Carla_.”

There were directions to her apartment on the backside, as well as a time to be there. Satisfied, Riven scooped the coin into her satchel and departed from the restaurant.

 

**ooooo**

 

Carla lived in the richer side of the city, but Riven wouldn’t be able to tell from the apartment complex she lived in, which was startlingly average. A simple, two-story building cinched between a barber’s shop and another set of apartments sat quietly on the edge of the street not too far from the shore, yellow pools of lamplight spaced evenly.

The door she looked for was on the ground floor, and after a few moments of searching, she found her destination, and raised her hand to knock.

She paused when she glimpsed the uncovered flesh of her forearm, flexing her fingers and anxiously rolling her shoulders. There would be questions, and she might be turned away out of disgust. Her scars weren’t pretty and she’d been told so, often glancing the morbidly curious people staring when she was looking the other direction.

But the door opened before Riven could hurry away down the street, and she couldn’t turn away the hungry heat between her legs when Carla leaned sensually on the doorway, clad in nothing but lace lingerie and a sinful smile.

“I think we can drop the pretenses, non?” Carla said, and then Riven was pulled insistently by the collar into a comfortable abode.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven awoke to terrified screams and hands groping her limbs, and her first thought was that it was another nightmare.

But it was too real; the squeaks of a muffled voice desperately trying to make itself heard, the nails burrowing into her skin, the rough scratch on her wrists as her arms were bound with rope behind her back. The faces she saw in the darkness quickly disappeared behind a burlap sack forced over her head, but she could see in other ways.

As they handled her and Carla without much concern to her comfort and carried her out the door into the cool air of night, she could smell heartily-applied cologne and laundered clothes. She could hear the metallic shifting of mechanisms in a pocket watch, and the soft jingle of metal sliding against metal that confused her until she identified the sound as a jingling, silver necklace. They spoke in a language she didn’t understand, but she recognized what it was from recent exposure when she wasn’t being dragged naked down the street.

Imported fragrances, jewelry, and Higher Demacian; these were nobles, not thugs, though why they were approaching the beach Riven could guess. And none of her guesses were happy endings for either of them.

Carla’s soft sobbing mingled with the mob of footsteps clopping down the sidewalk. She spoke in their tongue, and though Riven didn’t know the words, she knew Carla was begging for her life, begging for them to let her go. Riven called out to her, but the point of a dagger jabbed her spine and a hissed voice commanded her to “ _shut your mouth, you fucking whore_.”

The roar of the waves was deafening now, and Riven’s feet began shuffling through sand. Carla wept openly in some sort of recognition, and Riven heard the shuffle as she frantically attempted escape, heard the panic in her voice as the other men spoke harshly to her.

They halted suddenly, and Carla bawled and begged as they were pushed to their knees, and Riven had been able to keep her pulse a steady beat, but Carla’s sudden grief stirred her survival instincts and her heart was hammering.

And as Carla wept, a single man’s voice recited something. A solemn prayer.

“I am so sorry…” Carla whimpered.

The prayer ended.

Carla shrieked.

The horrible, wet sound of a blade slicing through flesh, and Carla’s screams spluttered into gurgles. Blood overpowered Riven’s nostrils, and she called out wildly, “Carla? Carla?!”

The only answer was a choking gurgle and the rustle of her body convulsing in the sand. Struggling to breathe, struggling to cry, and Riven stood to help her but a boot kicked out her leg.

“You fucking bastards!” Riven roared.

Something wet and sharp pressed to her throat, and began to cut.

She rolled backwards halfway and threw her leg over her head. The man behind her was short, and when the bottom of her shin connected with his face, it struck with such forced that his head jerked backwards. He collapsed with a broken neck, but Riven was concentrated on where the knife fell.

The others cried out, and Riven completed the roll to come to a kneel, reached down with her bound arms, and her fingers sifted through the sand as they wrapped around the handle of a dagger.

_Left._

She stepped right, cut the rope around her wrists, then stepped back in and slashed. The blade cut deeply through flesh, and the shocked gurgle revealed she’d hit his throat. She ripped the sack off of her head.

The lighting was dim, the moon’s pale shadow drifting over the waves of the black ocean, but the malice and shock on their faces was clear to see. They were dressed in black and brown and covered their eyes and hair beneath a bandanna, but their clean shaven mugs and the ornate handles of their weaponry betrayed their class.

She should’ve ran. But Carla was still clinging to life, blood seeping from her neck at their feet.

The lighting was dark, the world a palette of oily black and pastel grey, but the fury and the cold hostility in her eyes of hot crimson was clear to see. They charged.

The blade was a silent bolt of silver lightning, a blinding glimmer before it pounced, and what it struck erupted into scarlet. They tried to defend, but Riven was strong; she cut through their blades and pierced through their hearts. They tried to attack, but Riven was fast; she dodged away and rent their throats and stomachs wide open until the sand was more red than tan. They tried to run, and some were successful, but Riven wasn’t about to let them live their merry lives without consequence; a gale launched her forward and her fists may as well have been jackhammers with the aftermath of their corpses.

There came a time when there was no one left to kill, and Riven was left standing on the beach wearing nothing but sand and blood.

She rushed to Carla, a sliver of hope lodged in her heart.

The body was still when Riven picked her up in her arms. Warm, but completely still. The wound on her throat still seeped blood, but most of it was soaked into the sand. Guilt crushed Riven’s heart that Carla’s last view was the inside of a burlap sack.

She barely had time to take off the bag before the night watch descended upon her.

 

**ooooo**

 

As it turned out, Riven chose possibly the worst time imaginable to visit Demacia.

“Cultural revolution” were not the words that came to mind when she gazed upon the pristine streets and the gentle people milling about, and yet, that was what it was. Demacian society was realizing that the conventional family of a father, a mother, a son, and a daughter was not the only family that could exist without issue. A mother could work without the direction of a man, and a father could instill both discipline and love without a motherly influence. Orphans were not disgraces, and a man could pair a man and a woman with a woman without any earthshattering consequence.

This realization countered everything Demacia had held as truth, a system shock that left the citizens in a daze. They would recover in time, society being reborn like a phoenix, but until then, they bumbled about in a changing world that was so new and unfamiliar to them.

And like any living being, they all reacted to new stimuli in different ways. Some embraced it, while others shunned it. Sons and daughters of the new age turned against fathers and mothers of the old tradition, and while there were some that made peace, many waged a bloody war that left bodies in the streets and a divide between the people as they argued over who was absolutely correct and who was certainly wrong.

And Riven had unwittingly thrown herself right in the middle of it.

Politics weren’t her thing, weren’t even close, but she couldn’t turn them away now. Not when the Five Judges glared down at her from their thrones of justice.

The Court of Judgment was roomy, slanted seating for the audience to both sides and behind, with a second level to it all looming above. She was cuffed to a chair for all to see, and before her were the raised podiums of the Five Judges who would hear a case, decide the guilty party, assign a punishment. Riven thought it odd to place so much power in five people when even places like the Freljord deferred to a jury for at least a portion of the legal process.

But Riven had no power here, and she already knew what the verdict and the punishment would be from their looks of scorn. Neither gays nor Noxian’s fared well in a Demacian court, and she expected a gay Noxian to fall twice as hard.

“I will ask again,” the centermost Judge said, his powdered wig pompously perched stop his head, “who was with you?”

Three nights had passed, and while they’d refused her most of her Demacian rights because she wasn’t technically Demacian, they’d fed her decently and they’d provided a long sleeve shirt to hide her scars, though she suspected that was more to save the audience from disgust.

Riven was far from the first victim of a lynching, but she appeared to be one of the only that survived, and she’d attracted plenty of attention from the media. Every seat was occupied from the floor level to the balcony, and the guard had allowed a few to stand at the back of the room provided they raised no ruckus.

Riven sighed. This was the third instance he’d asked the same question, and she would supply him with the same answer.

“Other than Carla, I was unaccompanied.”

The Judge leaned forward, the air of superiority he exuded gagging her. “You mean for me to believe that you, one woman, killed twenty-seven men with no aid from anyone?”

She bristled; stoicism was key in situations like this, but his insistence that she’d also killed Carla was ticking away at her patience. “Twenty-six. Carla died at their hands, not mine.”

“I apologize,” but the triumphant twinkle in his eyes said otherwise, “The coroner has stated that the same weapon used on the victims was used to slit the woman’s throat. I simply want to ensure the facts are straight.”

She was going to comment on his referral to her attackers as victims, but she bit her tongue and persevered. It wouldn’t be long before they would declare their judgement, and they’d gifted her three days to plan escape.

The center Judge glanced to his colleagues beside him, and then announced to all, “The Court will now consider the evidence presented and reach a decision.” They stood, then shuffled out the door behind them one by one. The crowd murmured and gossiped while Riven calmly thought.

She’d shared a cell with a man who’d been subject to The Court for more times than he could count, but as such, he’d gained a familiarity with the building’s layout. It took some coaxing, but she’d weened out what she needed from him before the guard had come to collect her. 

The armory was back through the double doors behind her, down the hall until the second door on her right, down that hall, and through the left door at the end. Her weapon would reside somewhere in the “Weapons of Arcane Nature.”

Furthermore, all doors were sealed magically, and if one were to be forced open, the cataclysm the breach caused would knock her unconscious. All except one, because the barrier was malfunctioning, and they’d removed the shield temporarily. The one through the double doors behind her, down the main hall to the last door on the left, and then down that hall to the third door on the right.

The Judges returned not five minutes later, and from the crowd’s behavior, Riven deduced that this was abnormal. They took their seats, the crowd hushing, and the center Judge glared down at her with contempt.

“We have heard your testimony and considered your innocence, but we have determined the evidence you produced was dubious at best, and you are hereby declared guilty of twenty-seven counts of homicide.”

Half of the crowd erupted in anger, the other half standing to argue, and soon the courtroom was a chaotic mess of hollered insults, but Riven’s eyes were on the four guards approaching to uncuff her.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“The sentence,” the Judge shouted above the ruckus, “Death by hanging!”

She would have only a moment to pacify four heavily armed and armored men, but four was all she needed. Then it was through the doors behind her, then the second on the right, then the leftmost at the end of the hall. Then back to the main hall, the last door on the left, then the third to the right was escape.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“Scheduled on the first Monday-!”

She eyed them down as they approached, the points of two pikes jabbing the nape of her neck. Make that six.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“-One month from now!”

One of the guards stepped forth, and unshackled her left hand.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“The Court adjourns!”

The shackle for her right hand clinked and fell away.

The time was now, and she prepared for a simultaneous strike to two of their throats.

The double doors behind her were thrown open with such force, they slammed against the walls, and when the crowd recognized the new person, they instantly fell silent. Whether it was from respect or from something else, Riven couldn’t tell solely from their looks, but the six guards around her straightened their backs and the Judges stared.

Complete silence.

The only sound was the clip of heels against the hardwood floor, the faint rustle of clothes as the audience shifted on their feet.

Riven smelled her before she saw her; the woman certainly enjoyed her perfume, and the reek of roses hung like a wreath around Riven’s neck.

Then Riven actually saw the woman as she walked around into view, and her first thought was _gorgeous_.

Long, lissome legs clad in tight, black leggings reached from a pair of heels to wide hips that voluptuously complemented her slender waist. The ivory wrapped around her upper body clung like a second skin, and though the intention was likely to squash her breasts to her body so she could move easier, it only managed to make them appear more sumptuous and pronounced. A rose-red cape hung dormant from one golden pauldron. Riven bit the inside of her cheek, but she hadn’t even seen her face yet.

Pale, rosy skin stretched across sharp cheekbones, and a sleek jawline paired with her petite nose. Her lips were plump and scrunched, and Riven could only guess whether her frown was intentional or a product of her facial structure. Short, raven hair shimmered in what sunlight peeked through the windows, and her eyes…

Her eyes caught Riven’s breath. Laced with long lashes and icy blue, but icy couldn’t describe how piercingly _cold_ they were. Colder than ice, colder than all of the Freljord and so distinct. And they tried so, so hard to appear coldly apathetic and emotionless, but Riven saw through it.

Riven saw it for what it was because she’d seen it every day for too many years whenever she glanced at a mirror. The guilt and the sorrow buried deep in the blue ice, saw the exhaustion concealed by extensive makeup.

Her second thought, when she could finally breathe again, was wondering how the woman was still in possession of her weapon despite the strictly enforced laws against civilians with arms. A member of the law she assumed, but she didn’t look the part.

The woman’s eyes raked her up and down, like she was sizing her up, and Riven patiently waited for the conclusion. She fixed Riven with those icy blue eyes and each breath was a conscious one as Riven returned the stare, outwardly indifferent.

Her voice was calculating and brusque, but Riven could hardly take her seriously with that persisting accent.

“You are the one they call Master Yi, I presume?”

With a voice like that, she could talk to Riven all day and she wouldn’t care about the subject. But the subject seemed rather important, so she said simply, “Yes.”

“the one that killed twenty seven of the finest Demacian swordsmen with a dagger?”

 “Twenty-six,” Riven replied with a twitch of the lip, “But I wouldn’t call them the finest Demacian swordsmen.”

The woman’s interest was piqued. “They were.” She mulled something over, staring absently at Riven while she did so. And then she made up her mind.

“Miss De Laurent,” the Judge said, obviously annoyed, “The woman before you is a convicted criminal. I would advise a wider distance between you.”

“Twenty-seven counts of murder; I am not deaf, old man,” she said distantly, pivoting to face the judges, and Riven was faced with a new distraction that hovered approximately head-height. A pleasant distraction, if the circumstances were any different.

“How much must I pay for her life?” the woman asked.

The Judge gawked, and the crowd broke into murmurs. “Miss De Laurent, must I remind you that-?”

“That she is a convicted criminal on death row,” she finished, irritated. “So it should not matter what happens to her now. How much must I pay for her life?”

He stuttered a reply, then frowned, then began scribbling on a paper. “Two thousand and five hundred for murder… Twenty-seven counts… Carry the two…”

The woman crossed her arms impatiently, cocking her hips off center, and the pleasant distraction that Riven had to pry her eyes from shifted in a most agreeable way. It was like she was young again, ogling the attractive upperclassmen with little restraint.

The man read the total aloud. “Sixty-five thousand crowns for the freedom of Master Yi.”

Riven somehow expected much more. Two and a half grand for one murder? Either they didn’t value life as greatly as others or there were flaws in the system. Whatever the case, Riven didn’t see a coin pouch that large hanging from the woman’s waist, so she recounted.

Back through the double doors, the second door on the right, the last door on the left-.

 “A deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of it? Like it? dislike it?   
> Tell me how I did, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	19. Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support! I'm really tired right now, so that's all I can muster right now, but know that I mean it. Please enjoy!

**1 Year Ago**

 

The De Laurent mansion lay outside of city bounds, across the bridge and further inland into the countryside. The initial segment of the journey was smooth stone, but as the sparse underbrush of the mesas and the mountains transformed into an undulating ocean of grass and field, the streets turned to a hard-packed dirt path and a mist seeped across the sky, spreading light fog and dead silence.

“If we travel any farther inland, we will be in the Kaladoun marshes,” Riven remarked.

Miss De Laurent said nothing, as was her reply to everything Riven had said or asked during the journey from the courthouse. She seemed to totally ignore Riven’s existence, staring blankly out the window of the carriage on the opposite bench.

It was a nice carriage, perhaps the nicest carriage Riven had ever seen with a decent amount of legroom, masterfully finished carpentry, and plush seating. Still, Riven preferred the wind rushing through her hair atop the saddle on a sturdy horse to this monotonous-yet-luxurious box of wood. The wheels struck a rut in the road and the back of Riven’s head was unceremoniously struck by the carriage wall.

De Laurent didn’t react.

Riven sighed and gazed out the unoccupied window, but there was little to see other than fog and hilly field. Time passed, the clop of horses hooves replacing any dialogue between the two.

Miss De Laurent whispered something.

“What?” Riven asked.

Those icy blue eyes stared out the window. “We’ve arrived.”

Riven scooted over to look out.

The estate was too large for Riven to see because most of it was obscured by the mist that hung over everything. A wrought iron fence bordered the rolling hills of dewy, dark green grass, a gravel path winding across the humps and through the dips all the way to the three-storied mansion somberly looming in the distance, half devoured by fog. It looked abandoned in the gloom.

They came upon the gates adorned with a simple emblem: rays of sunshine emanating from a rose, and Riven realized that it must be the family crest. The carriage halted while the driver hopped down and unfastened the lock, and once he’d clambered back into the seat, the horses drew them onward.

Riven could see no one on the sweeping grounds but the grass was cut and well kept, and much too expansive for a small labor force to tend to. Then again, the woman hadn’t blinked at the price of sixty-five thousand crowns, a number four times as high as anything the majority of Valoran would make in their entire lifetime, so a large, well-funded team of gardeners wasn’t out of the question.

They neared the mansion, and just before the polished set of darkwood double doors, they circumnavigated a fountain. The bed was dry, and in the bowl held aloft by a pillar stood the statute of a man, the beige stone carved into a lifelike masterpiece, though who it represented eluded Riven.

However, HMiss De Laurent couldn’t pry her icy blue gaze away from it, and Riven noticed how the sadness and the exhaustion bled from her eyes without restraint. When she caught Riven watching her from the corner of her eye, she froze over, and she was nothing but a corpse with a pulse again.

The carriage halted, and the first signs of life Riven had seen for half an hour appeared seemingly from the mist and opened the doors, extending a polite hand to aid her in dismounting. Riven ignored them, and hopped onto the gravel driveway.

The house was made of bleak brick, and though there were only three levels, it towered loftily, topped with a canted roof of tar-black tile. The raised porch cowered in the shade of a third-story balcony above, slender columns stretching to support the weight. The windows were tall and narrow, black shutters locked closed, and the plethora of gaunt chimneys roosted hollowly above like wraiths in the mist. From the main hall, two wings extended to either side, and solely based on the number of windows, Riven estimated that there must be a hundred rooms, probably more.

And there were roses. Thousands of them bordering the foundation of the house, bordering the dry fountain, the blood-red petals dripping from a recent rain, thorns prickling goosebumps on Riven’s flesh. They were everywhere, two entire gardens of them on either side of the porch, singing their sad tunes for Riven’s eyes to hear.

A man was waiting from them on the porch, his cheekbones and the color of his raven hair like Miss De Laurent’s. His lips were pursed in worry, his earthy eyes darting from Riven to De Laurent and back again.

Their footsteps crunched the gravel, the chilly, moist air breathing down her spine, and as they climbed the four steps to the landing, the man briskly hurried to meet them. Miss De Laurent attempted to sidestep him, but he moved with the same nimbleness she moved with and she surrendered with an irritated frown.

His accent matched hers, but he was decidedly more anxious than her. “ _Again?_ And how much did you pay for her?”

She huffed, jaw taut. “What is it to you, hmm?”

“You know damn well what it is to me! You are squandering the family fortune on these-,” he motioned harshly to Riven, “these criminals, and for what?”

Miss De Laurent held her chin high, straightened her back, and clasped both hands behind her. “I am the head of House Laurent, and as long as I carry the honor of the family name on my shoulders, my motives will not be questioned.”

Baffled, he gave no resistance when she pushed past him, her cape fluttering in her wake. He chased after her, and Riven gave them a healthy distance.

“Besides,” she continued, “You know perfectly well why I do what I do.”

“How much was she?” he asked gravely.

The massive doors were opened by two servants in tuxedos, and Riven’s hope that the interior would be warmer than the exterior was quashed as they all stepped over the threshold and into a small, short hallway.

“How much was-?”

“Sixty-five thousand crowns,” she answered without so much as a glance in her direction.

 His jaw dropped. “Sixty-fi-… Fiora, tell me you’re joking!”

“Relax,” she commanded, “We make that much in a week.”

“That would be all well and fine,” he said through grit teeth, “if this were a once-a-week endeavor. But seeing as it is _not_ , you will ruin us with these constant purchases!”

Riven was beginning to become fed up with being referred to as an item, but before she could speak her mind, the hallway opened up and she was thrown into a world of static grey.

The focus of her attention was immediately upon the far wall of the foyer. A massive mosaic of the House Laurent crest stretching all the way to the high ceiling filtered all light but the grimmest of midnight blues and greys. Banners of the same solemn blue ghosted from the railing of the third-level balcony down to the ground floor.

Everything was blue and grey. Blue carpets trawling up the stairs and grey, stone floors and walls that sheened.

“Ammdar,” Fiora said, “Show the guest to her room.”

The stairs on the far side were Fiora’s destination, and Riven watched her go. There was a finesse in each stride, a captivating rhythm to her footfalls, a sensual grace in the sway of her hips and in her every movement. Like she’d trained countless hours just to walk with such poise and elegance. Fascinating.

“Ahem,” Ammdar said.

She swiveled to him.

He appeared annoyed at his delegation to valet. “Follow.”

Hostless suits of armor and framed, dour faces glared at them as Ammdar lead them down the hallway. Servants dressed in black and white dusted tabletops and watered the vases of roses, and while most of them attended to their duties, the ones that spared her a glance quickly looked away.

“Am I a slave?” Riven asked.

“What gives you that idea?” he asked, puzzled.

“She bought my freedom. I know a few things about Demacian law, but I do not know everything.”

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder. “You… don’t know why you’re here?”

“Miss De Laurent- Fiora, was it?- did not seem inclined to answer my questions.”

Ammdar stopped suddenly, almost arbitrarily, and motioned to a door on the right. “These will be your quarters tonight. The staff will tend to your needs,” and he attempted to walk past.

Riven grabbed his arm as he passed, firmly enough to show she could do worse, but not so strongly she would bruise him. “Hold on. You were about to say something, were you not?”

He opened his mouth to lie and Riven fixed him with a stare that was somewhere between politely demanding and physically threatening. He tried to resist, but she tightened her grip and sharpened her eyes, cluing him in that she didn’t need a blade to do plenty of damage. She was half a head taller than him, after all.

He sighed, chewing his lip. “Why the devil do I always have to have these conversations?” he said to the wall, and then to Riven, “Alright, I’ll tell you.”

Her quarters were spacious for a guest bedroom, large enough that a portion of it was sectioned off for a toilet, sink, and shower in the corner to the right of the door. All with silver faucets, of course, and the bed was wide enough for two. When she seated herself at the edge and sifted her fingers across the comforter, she discovered that it was perhaps the most comfortable bed she’d slept in.

With a possible exception of that one time at Bilgewater, but she’d shared it then.

Ammdar grabbed the chair tucked under the desk and seated it so he faced Riven on the bed. He leaned forward, massaging his temples. “Where to begin… Do you know who Mademoiselle Fiora de Laurent is?”

“I may have heard the name tossed around a bar or two, but no, I do not know who Fiora de Laurent is.”

“She is, simply put, the best blade north of the Barrier. South of it, too, if I had to bet.” While his expression remained neutral, pride glistened in his amber eyes.

“A bold statement,” Riven said.

“And yet it is true. All who challenge her die.”

“How many has she challenged?”

“Thirty, so far.” To her surprise, he listed them off like he was reading names from a paper. “Thirteen from glorious Demacia herself, six from Noxus, three from the Blue Flames-,” Her brow quirked, and he corrected, “Uh, Bilgewater I think you call it, so three from Bilgewater. One from the Shurima, two from the Freljord, two from Kumungu, one from the Shadow Isles if you can believe it, one from Zaun, and one particularly rude gentleman from Piltover. And don’t get me started on all that have challenged her, or we’ll be here all day.”

“That is quite the body count,” she admitted, and frowned, “Why on Runeterra would anyone be so eager to fight so many?”

Ammdar flinched at a bad memory, trying to rub it from his eyes. “Fiora… committed a mistake. Very egregious in Demacian society.”

Riven snorted. “What is not?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Continue.”

He massaged the black stubble peppered on his pale complexion. “She thinks she can wash away the deed in blood. She thinks she can restore honor to the family name if she proves herself worthy as head of House Laurent. And so, she searches for a worthy opponent, hoping that one day, Demacia will open its eyes and recognize her as a woman of honor.”

But his head was in his hands as he said it, like he had a migraine just thinking about it. “I take it you do not agree with this mission of hers?”

“Demacia doesn’t forget, and Demcaia doesn’t forgive.” He sat up, looking more exhausted than he was before. “I love this country, don’t you ever mistake that, but I’m not blind to her flaws. The people are… stubborn.”

She nodded acknowledgement. “I do not see where I fit in to all of this.”

He paused, gathering the words, eying her with caution. “She has fought and slain men and women from all corners of the globe. All but one.”

Bandle City? Kaladoun? She shook her head, acknowledging her ignorance.

“They’re at war with our lovely neighbors, or have you forgotten?” he said.

Noxus and Ionia. But she’d already killed six from Noxus, so that only left-.

Master Yi from Ionia. An Ionian champion.

“Fuck.”

“Precisely. She thinks that…” his lips pursed, like he was chewing something sour, “killing you in battle will complete her scavenger hunt.”

They were silent for a while, Riven deep in thought and Ammdar fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair like a doctor that had just confessed that his patient carried a terminal illness, and Riven may as well have been.

Riven frowned. “You do know I am not Ionian? I was born and raised in Noxus.”

He nodded, but it was a defeated sort of nod. “I figured as much. But she is blinded by desperation, and I fear she sees nothing but the next duel to win.”

“When will this duel take place?” she asked.

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

Tomorrow. Even her court-sentenced death gave her more time than that.

“And what would happen if I were to refuse?” she asked. She’d seen no guard, and the doors were lockable, but weren’t anything she couldn’t deal with.

“You can’t.” Her brow quirked, and he continued, “Those that refuse a challenge are outcasts of society. I doubt they would let you through the gates again.”

Riven didn’t much care for Demacia anyway.

“And wolves patrol the forests here. You’d be devoured before you’d made it half a mile.”

 Riven did care much for wolves, though.

“If that’s all…” he said, feet tapping the carpeted floor.

“Where is my weapon and my satchel?”

 “Both are in the carriage. You will receive them tomorrow morning, at the duel. Then if that’s all you need…”

She waved him away with one hand, carding her fingers through her hair with the other. “Go.”

A sharp nod, and he stood, exiting the room and walking down the hall. But his muffled footfalls paused, and she closed her eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat.

“Yes?” she asked loud enough for him to hear.

A few moments later, his face appeared around the doorway. Startled, he asked, “What?”

“You hesitated. Do you wish to say more?”

He was going to say no.

She chuckled sardonically, because it was the only thing she could do, and said, “I am to die tomorrow anyway. It is not like I can hold anything against you for very long.”

He hesitated again, foot tapping, fingers playing with the frilly cuffs of his undershirt. Finally, he stepped through the doorway and stopped. “If you don’t mind, mademoiselle… what did those twenty-seven do to deserve such a swift end?”

“Demacians are not the most accepting of change, are they?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

“They say a Demacian’s sense of family is as resolute as stone.” He snorted. “A tad too resolute, I think.”

She looked him in the eyes and asked, “What would you say if I told you I prefer women?”

“It isn’t my concern of who you decide to bed.”

“Good,” she nodded respectfully, “but not everyone thinks that way.”

“That’s a drastic understatement,” Ammdar commented.

“I met a group of twenty-six of them, give or take a few. Or rather, they met me.”

He cocked his head. “And you cut them down in the street? Just like that?”

“After they shoved a bag over my head, killed the woman I slept with, and almost killed me too?” The shock on his face amused her. “Then, in a sense, yes.”

He tried to say something but failed several times. He settled on a mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”

But sorry didn’t bring Carla back, and the guilt returned. Maybe if she’d been faster in dispatching them, she could’ve clotted the wound, or if she’d made a stand in the apartment Carla wouldn’t have been wounded in the first place. Instead, she’d hesitated, and now look where she was.

“Did you have feelings for her?” he asked.

“No. It was spontaneous.” She huffed. “To be honest, I was more interested in the bed than I was the woman in it.”

He nodded solemnly, staring at the floor and Riven joined him in that respect.

“I do not suppose Miss Fiora will take pity on me and grant me freedom?”

Silence was her answer.

She sighed. “I thought not.”

The conversation had died between them, and now it festered to the point of awkwardness. But Ammdar was staring intensely at floor, so deep in thought that Riven decided to let him think if the matter on his mind really commanded so much attention. She fingered the grooves of her warped flesh, wishing she was in possession of bandages and not in her white, colorless jail leathers.

Ammdar stood without warning and made for the door.

“Can I ask you a question?” Riven asked, and he stopped in his tracks.

“I suppose it’s only fair,” he said, sounding like he’d rather be somewhere else, but not in a rude manner.

“Who are you?” she asked, eying him up and down. “You are too nicely dressed to be one of the staff, and you do not carry the air of reluctant servitude that all who serve possess. But you wait on Miss De Laurent on hand and foot.”

“Ah, I suppose I can understand your confusion. I am Ammdar de Laurent, second oldest son of the late Monsieur Laurent,” he bowed courteously, “at your service, mademoiselle. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

And then Riven was alone in her room, laying on her comfortable bed she would only use once, staring at the ceiling and devising any sort of plan to get herself out alive.

 

**ooooo**

 

“I will _not_ cancel tomorrow’s duel,” Fiora said with haughty finality, waltzing to the master bathroom and leaving a flustered Ammdar in the bedroom.

“Damnit Fiora, listen to me for once in your life!” he insisted, fists balled. “If you go through with this, you will be no better than you think her to be!”

She didn’t give him the benefit of looking in her in face, adjusting her makeup for the umpteenth time in front of the mirror. “Oh? And why is that?”

He threw his hands up. “You know perfectly well why! I just told you!”

She turned on him, faux curiosity so sharply sarcastic that Ammdar winced. “And how would you know this, hmmm? I suppose she broke down in a fit of tears and pleaded her innocence?”

He massaged his temples. “It’s true that she was the one that told me, but-!”

“Ammdar!” she interrupted, speaking with an irritated lilt. “Do you even know what crime she is convicted of? Twenty-seven counts of murder. _Twenty-seven_ , Ammdar! Do you really put faith in a person that killed twenty-seven in cold blood?”

“Yes, I do,” he retorted stubbornly, crossing his arms. “And it’s twenty-six. Not that it matters.”

“I don’t care about the details,” Fiora said, mussing her hair. “She is scum, and tomorrow, I will strike her down in battle and there’s not a damn thing you can do.”

No immediate response, and she couldn’t resist a triumphant curl of the lip. She scrunched her nose, contorting her face until she’d examined every little section on her complexion. Almost flawless.

But that wasn’t enough; she accepted nothing but perfection. Maybe more lipstick would do the trick…

“You’re right,” Ammdar said weakly. “There’s not a damn thing I can do.”

“I know I’m right,” Fiora said.

The lipstick worked, but her cheeks were slightly different hues. More makeup would do the trick.

“Then why should I stay?”

She paused for a moment. “Don’t be silly; you always come back.”

Her cheeks were perfect. But now that she looked at them again, her lips could use a little work…

She glanced behind her, and Ammdar wasn’t there. “Ammdar?”

No response. Her heart lurched, but she calmed herself. He would come back. He always came back.

Maybe more mascara would make him come back…

But he wasn’t coming back.

She peeked her head out of the doorway to her room. “Ammdar?” A few tentative steps out into the hallway, fretting with her lip.

The front door slammed shut.

Cold fear raised goosebumps over her flesh, and her heart hammered. “Ammdar?!”

Down the hallway and onto the balcony of the foyer. Her eyes darted to find him, but he was nowhere.

“Ammdar? This isn’t funny!” she called out.

A horse neighed out front, and it was then that panic gripped her.

She ran as fast as one can run in heels, flying down the stairs, across the carpet, and she fumbled with the doorknob, and then she threw it open-.

Ammdar gave her one last, mournful look over his shoulder, and then he spurred his horse, and he was galloping away.

“Ammdar! Wait!” she cried out, eyes wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

But they both knew she was lying, and he galloped away.

She sprinted after him as fast as her legs could carry her, eyes stinging, waving wildly at him. “Ammdar!” she shouted, “Please, don’t!”

But he couldn’t hear her, because he was already nearing the gates and showing no signs of stopping. She sprinted until her legs burned and gave out, until she collapsed into the gravel driveway, tears rolling down her cheeks and ruining all her good work.

“Ammdar,” she called out feebly, reaching for where he just was, but he was out of sight, and Fiora was alone.

Fiora was alone.

Weeping into her hands on the gravel driveway because her beloved brother had finally had enough of her schemes and now she was alone. No father. No mother. No sisters, and now, no brothers. Alone in a cold, empty house with nothing but the mist and the staff to keep her company, but they avoided her like the plague.

Fiora wept, because everyone she loved had left her and she was so, so alone.

Riven watched the distant spectacle from the window with unfeeling eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you all think? I hope to see you next chapter!


	20. The Grand Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy!

**1 Year Ago**

 

Riven was to die- the maid had used the word _duel_ , but she’d looked at Riven with such pity that Riven knew what she really meant- in the Hall of Blades. Also known as the foyer.

An appalling number of spectators packed the ground floor, and the second and third floor balconies should’ve collapsed under the weight of so many people by now. Excited murmurs, bills surfing the crowds to the bet masters, twinkling eyes eager for bloodshed; it reminded her too much of the Fleshing arena in Noxus, but instead of hordes of savage monsters, she would face one woman.

Riven entered the foyer from the north wing on the ground floor, and when she opened the door, she found a path through the crowd had been roped off for her. There were guards, actual Demacian guards with plate and weaponry spaced evenly along the border of the crowd, and Riven realized that if lawmen were here to keep the peace, dueling must be a larger part of Demacian culture than she’d originally thought.

Conversations kick started when Riven walked to the narrow, blue carpet running the length of the room. A man dressed in an elegant, beige overcoat stood outside of the perimeter maintained by the guard, and he eyed her approach. The room smelled of sickly sweet perfume and choking amounts of cologne, and absurd amounts of jewelry flashed in the grim light petering through the mosaic.

The man in the beige overcoat stepped forward, gaze crawling reluctantly from her head to toe and back again, like looking at her was as unpleasant as a garbage bath.

“I assume you are ignorant of dueling culture?” the man asked, but it was more of a statement.

She didn’t react to his condescending undertones, instead focusing on the awful, greasy excuse for a mustache pinched between his nose and lip. “I regret to inform you that I know nothing of the sort,” she said.

“Then listen like your life depends on it, _Noxian_ , because it most certainly does.”

Riven nodded with feigned respect.

“I am the director of this duel, and you will obey my commands without question. The rug you stand on will be the acting arena. Purposefully stepping foot outside is strictly forbidden, and is an affront to your honor.” A cocksure upturn of the chin, a sly pull of the lip. “I assume you know what honor is, non?”

Riven narrowed her eyes, nodding slowly. “I believe I have a general sense as to what it is, yes.”

“Good. Now as for rules, this duel will follow all of the standards illustrated in the manual of Guidelines, Etiquette, and Rules of Demacian Dueling. I’m going to assume from your dumb look that you haven’t the foggiest idea what I speak of.”

“Not a clue.”

If his mustache waggled with any more disdain to her being, she would tear it from his face.

“They are too comprehensive to cover every principle, but out of pity, I will inform you of the basics.”

“I feel honored.”

His lip curled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Noxian.” His posture straightened, and he listed them with ease of years’ worth of recitals. “Every duel begins with the salute. It looks something like this.” With an imaginary blade, he swished low once, then back the other way. “Now you.”

She felt ridiculous waving an imaginary sword in front of an astute audience, but she did so anyways. Two low swishes, and she wasn’t the worst in Demacia at it.

He appeared to disagree, his mustache waggling, and her fingers twitched. He sighed. “Alright, good enough for the time being. This duel is between you and Mademoiselle De Laurent. No one else may interfere, and if they do, the opposing party may demand their immediate execution.”

Riven grunted. A world of black and white must be hard on the eyes.

The man gestured to the door she’d entered from. “Soon, they will bring your blade. It’s been prepared for you; sharpened, polished, and everything in between. But if, upon inspection, you find a flaw somewhere, you are entitled to request that your weapon be sharpened more, polished to a shinier sheen, etcetera, etcetera.” He leaned in, “A bit of advice: don’t use this to stall for time. Once called into session, a duel doesn’t end until the conditions of victory are met, so demanding endless requests to delay the inevitable is futile.”

“And what are the conditions of victory?” she asked.

“They’re decided by the party that demanded the duel. Mostly, it is to the death, but it may be a battle to disarmament, or to whoever first draws blood. Though, if the past few clashes are any indication, I wouldn’t cling to hope if I were you.”

Kill or be killed. Simple and concise, if nothing else.

“Is that all?”

“Not by a wide margin,” he said. “But it will have to do; Mademoiselle De Laurent approaches.”

Riven made to center herself on the carpet.

“One more thing Noxian,” the man said, and she looked over her shoulder. “The only contact allowed in this duel will be that of your blades, and nothing else.”

Riven frowned. “Explain?”

“No punching, kicking, spitting, scratching, pulling or grappling of any sort.”

But punching, kicking, spitting, scratching, pulling, and grappling were integral pieces to Riven’s fighting style, because without her fists, what did she have? A broken sword more akin to a dagger than anything else.

“What kind of fight is this?” she asked, brow thoroughly furrowed.

An offended huff. “This isn’t a _fight_ ; this is a _duel_ , a respectable clash of blade and wit, and naming it anything else is an insult-.”

“To your honor, yes, I understand,” Riven said, jaw taut, searching the balconies for signs of her opponent.

Instead, she glimpsed Ammdar standing on the second floor balcony, staring down at her with earthy, apprehensive eyes and arms tightly crossed over his chest. Fiora was right; he always did come back.

Something landed lightly on her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at it.

A rose petal, crisp and red and pleasantly odorous. Riven blinked, because after only a few seconds of contact, the petal disappeared. Faded from existence. She looked up.

It was the chandelier. Instead of bulbs or candle holders, there were live roses shedding their delicate, infinite petals, and Riven closed her eyes as the rain of blood splashed against her upturned face. A wonderfully gentle sensation, soft petals spiraling onto her cheeks only to disappear in an instant.

A hush rolled across the audience, muffling voices, enveloping the room in a silence so dead, Riven had to remind herself to breathe.

She opened her eyes.

Fiora stood atop the stairs, tall posture silhouetted against the grey light of the mosaic. She shone brilliantly, and when she stepped down the stairs with meticulous grace, she was like an angel descending from the bright white above. Her gold sleeves glittered, her short cape sauntering behind her, and her icy blue eyes peeking from her raven shock of hair were the iciest Riven had ever seen them.

She stopped two strides from the bottom step of the stairs, and when a curtain of petals drifted from the chandelier onto her shoulders and brushed her face, she didn’t react.

Fiora glared at Riven like she’d killed her family in front of her, and Riven realized in that moment that Fiora didn’t know Ammdar had returned. So in Fiora’s icy blue eyes, Riven had indeed killed her family in front of her.

Quiet as the petals fell and never ceased, vanishing into nowhere. Riven remained expressionless under the freezing glare that cut through the shower of scarlet.

The director cleared his throat, but neither pried their gazes away.

His voice bounced off the stone walls. “Fiora de Laurent, Head of House Laurent, has challenged Master Yi, a swordsman from Ionia, to duel of blades.”

The audience paid rapt attention to the spectacle, absorbing the words and whispering faintly.

The faced Fiora, speaking directly to her. “Mademoiselle Fiora de Laurent, what are the conditions of-?”

“Death,” she said, gaze never faltering.

He nodded. “Very well.” He motioned to the door, ushering in several finely-dressed servants. Two came to her, and two silently walked to Fiora.

One of them cradled a long pillow, and on it, Riven’s weapon lay comfortably. She reached out, and when her hand hovered over the handle, the carved rune glowed emerald. The rune glowed brighter when she gripped the hilt firmly and lifted it from the pillow.

“An interesting choice in blade, Mademoiselle,” the maid said.

The man accompanying her asked, “Is your blade satisfactory, Mademoiselle?”

It was fractured in too many places to count, the balance was horrible, and it was less than half the size it should’ve been.

In other words, it was perfect, and they’d added a glossy shine to the darksteel on top of it all.

“Very.” If she had to die with a weapon in her hand, she’d rather it be this poor excuse for a sword than any of the finest crafted weapons in all of Demacia. She’d bled with it and she’d made others bleed with it, and she was too familiar with it to cast it aside.

The two servants returned to the sidelines, but they didn’t exit the room. To clean the blood and dispose of the body when the match was over.

Fiora was still glaring when Riven returned to the carpet, but now she grasped a rapier, the golden hilt twisted into a rose, the bluesteel blade as sensuously curvy and long as the person who held it with slender fingers. A true master had forged that weapon, and the ease and control with which Fiora handled it indicated that a true master wielded it.

But they would find out who the true master was shortly.

The director was looking at Riven expectantly, and Riven frowned in confusion until she remembered. She saluted with two low swipes, or as low as she could with her shorter blade. The director looked to Fiora.

But Fiora just glared.

“Mademoiselle?” the director said, a quick gesture to jog her memory.

But Fiora just glared.

Shocked murmurs ran loose through the crowds, and when Riven glanced upwards, Ammdar was massaging his temples fretfully.

“Alright, then,” the director said, flustered.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Fiora wanted to kill her, but she didn’t want to kill Fiora. She wouldn’t if she had the chance, but her hand may be forced, what with the rules of no body contact. She might also lose all together, but she refused to despair. She knew what that was like, and she wouldn’t ever return to that dark place where the sun’s light couldn’t reach.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

The stage was set, the audience present, and the dancers ready to tango.

“En garde!” the director shouted.

Riven took a wary stance, one hand against the guard and the other wrapped around the pommel. The petals still fell, and Riven tested their slipperiness with the bottom of her sandal. They wouldn’t give her any trouble besides a visual distraction, but her opponent was already visually distracting. Phonetically too, but she’d only said one word so far.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

The director looked to them both, to Riven with grim determination in her eyes, to Fiora with unadulterated murder in hers. The edge of Fiora’s blade sang a haunting melody as it swiped through the air, chasing a warmup routine around her feet.

“Prêtes?” the director asked, looking to Riven.

She nodded, rolling her shoulders.

He looked to Fiora.

A slow nod.

_In through the nose…_

“Allez!”

_… Out through the mouth._

She could hear it all, the rhythm of Fiora’s heartbeat, the scuff of shoes against the stone floor, the bated breaths of the audience.

Fiora was advancing, and Riven knew she would strike first. It was in her stance, how she prioritized an offensive placement of her hand, how she strode forth with too much purpose and steam, how she barely hid any of this.

It was either a feint, or Fiora had severely underestimated Riven.

Fiora was fast. Faster than anyone she’d faced before, faster than a wyvern’s tail whip, faster than maybe even herself. But Riven knew what was coming, because the tug in her gut told her so, and because she’d deduced a reckless move.

A quick swipe toward her neck would’ve surely been fatal had Riven not parried it away.

The surprise on Fiora’s face at having been denied a quick kill was good enough on its own, so it was safe to say that when Riven immediately darted in to punish her overextension, she was totally shocked.

Riven could’ve ended it right there with a strike to her vulnerable throat, and the bout would end as Fiora bled to death on her own carpet. However, Riven had nothing personally against her even though the same couldn’t be said for her opponent, and she didn’t wish to stain her blade with Demacian blood. So she cut a scar across her chin that was shallow as to not leave permanent damage but placed in such a way that it couldn’t be an accident.

Fiora retreated, pressing the fingers of her free hand to her chin to inspect that damage while her wide eyes stared. They were truly stunning eyes.

The audience collectively leaned in, interest more than piqued.

Fiora raised her weapon again, but now there was caution and rational thought in her movements. She regarded Riven with a sliver of respect, but it disappeared as she advanced on light feet.

She attempted the same swipe and Riven parried again, but Fiora ducked away before Riven could riposte.

Fiora immediately reengaged, striking twice with unthinkable speed. Two times cool bluesteel clanged off of charged darksteel, and Fiora retreated. Testing the waters, evaluating Riven’s reflexes and defensive capabilities, scouting for vulnerabilities in her guard. She would find none, just as Riven found no openings in Fiora’s.

A thrust dashed to spear Riven’s leading leg, and though Fiora’s footing was planted and her body was committed, Riven knew its intentions were to draw her guard low to expose her upper body. She played along, parrying the blow.

Fiora’s blade jumped up in an instant, aiming to sheath her weapon in Riven’s chest. She didn’t allow that to happen, knocking the strike away and then she was on the offensive.

The first blow was a test of Fiora’s speed. Fiora performed admirably, skillfully parrying and attempting a riposte, but she was forced to abandon her attack when Riven’s second strike arrived.

The second blow was a test of strength. It took some mind games, tricking her into blocking instead of dodging away, but Riven managed, striking in such a way that Fiora could do nothing but throw up her blade. Fiora did not perform so well in that respect; Riven could’ve struck much, much harder, and still Fiora stumbled dumbly.

The third blow was a test of cunning. A feint to assess Fiora’s ability to recognize a trap. She performed so well that she almost lured Riven into a trap of her own, but Riven ducked backwards, the bluesteel halting inches from her throat.

Oohs and ahs and excited murmuring surrounded them, streaks of grey light shooting through the gaps between the soft rain of petals. The air smelled of a rose garden instead of over-applied beauty products, sweet and easy on the nostrils.

Riven backed off, eyes scanning Fiora’s lithe form for deficiencies in her defense, but there were still none. She could more easily believe the body count now.

But she wished not to number among them, so she chose to parry the thrust to her chest. She stepped in to punish, but Fiora recovered so quickly that Riven almost stepped into her next strike. She parried that, and then immediately parried another, and then parried another.

Then Fiora locked her into a defensive cycle that she couldn’t escape. A relentless barrage of flickering bluesteel that struck so quickly, Riven couldn’t do anything but parry and block and continue to lose ground because even when she managed to stumble or counter Fiora, she recovered too swiftly for Riven to safely punish.

There were a hundred ways Riven could unstick herself from the situation, but they all involved breaking the rules; she couldn’t sidestep because setting foot anywhere but the carpet wasn’t allowed, and she couldn’t intervene with her hands and feet because that was illegal too. She was stuck.

And yet, all Riven could think was to admire Fiora’s womanly grace, appreciate her endurance that caused not a single drop of sweat to drip down her porcelain skin or a stray breath to escape her lips that wasn’t intended.

Her whole body wasn’t just in harmony; it was a harmony itself. It was a melody as boisterous as her golden, gleaming gauntlets, a melody as distinct as her movements were sharp and precise, a melody as intense and violent and fierce as her eyes were cold and calculating and concentrated, but also as orderly and efficient as her footing was infalliable. The chorus was the exchange of blades, the metal clang of bluesteel abusing darksteel, and the lyrics were the whiffs and the singing slice of a honed edge cutting through air. The beat was the batter of their feet against the carpet as Riven retreated backwards, and the inspiration was the rolling tide of battle that crashed like cymbals against a rocky shore.

She was an exhilarating masterpiece, a song unlike any Riven had ever heard, a beast of unthinkable rhythm and tempo.

But that was her flaw: she was too consistently rhythmic and evenly paced. Riven knew when Fiora’s attack would arrive because all she had to do was count the beats. All she had to do was let Fiora wail on her and sing Riven her song and show her who she really was, and now Riven knew everything about Fiora.

She knew her rhythm, her tempo, her instrument of order, and most importantly of all, she knew her melody. She’d gathered all of this in their waltz of blades, as she was pushed closer and closer to the edge of the carpet.

So when the crescendo of movement and sound and mind arrived, and when Riven’s heel found the edge of the mat, and when Fiora coiled a monumental, lightning-quick strike to pierce Riven’s heart and end her life, Riven disrupted her harmony.

She parried the thrust, and while Fiora was gawking at Riven’s countering of something that couldn’t be countered, Riven struck Fiora in the face with the pommel of her blade. That was technically legal, right?

But rules didn’t matter now; it was Riven’s turn, and she would sing her the gusty ballad of threes.

The first blow prioritized strength over speed, and while Fiora put forth valiant effort to block, the sheer power knocked her blade away from her torso.

The second blow was a quick cut across her collarbone. Another chance to kill her and end the duel, but that was point of ceding the fatality. Riven didn’t want to kill her.

The third blow staggered her backwards, and Riven gained ground, the first sequence complete.

Fiora called upon her muse and tried to fall into the groove of a tune, swiping at her neck, but Riven snipped the strings to her instrument and ducked.

The first blow carved a horizontal scar across Fiora’s gut, a red dash painted across a field of pristine white. She could’ve disemboweled her, but she hadn’t.

The second blow knocked aside her guard again, the explosive ring of metal colliding with metal reverberating through the foyer.

The third blow sliced through the flesh just above her eyebrow. The blood from the wound would drip down and blind her dominant eye. Riven staggered her again and gained ground, the second sequence concluding on the hint of a breeze.

Fiora unleashed her heart, the lyrics spilling from the point of her blade as it thrust wildly to keep distance, but Riven silenced her cries without remorse. The third stanza was upon them.

The first blow was a complicated maneuver that reached around Fiora’s guard and deeply cut through the gentle flesh of her cheek. It shocked her, brought her more pain than she expected and she focused on that instead of Riven’s weapon.

The second blow sliced through the inside of her thigh, and Fiora yelped as she dropped to one knee, rapier held before her in last, desperate attempt to guard herself.

The third and final blow bound their blades, and as Riven twisted, the tip of her blade cut through the inside of Fiora’s wrist until-.

Fiora cried out, though whether it was from the pain or from the rapier being wrenched from her grasp, Riven didn’t know. The gleaming metal soared like a comet through the curtain of petals, clattering noisily to the stone floor.

The room was absolutely silent. No one breathed, no one shuffled on their feet, no coughed or sneezed or murmured; all was silent as a graveyard.

Riven raised Fiora’s chin with her blade, the point nestled in her throat. She gazed up, eyes as confused and empty as her hands, and Riven cast her a look made of cold, jaded ruby.

“Yield,” Riven commanded.

The word bounced from person to person, whispers erupting while one particular heart in the second balcony raced furiously.

Fiora appeared appalled at such a suggestion, and Riven was puzzled because Fiora was in no fighting shape. A nose that could possibly be broken, dominant eye blinded by sticky blood, a gash leaking crimson across her stomach, a debilitating cut inside her thigh, and completely without weapon.

Riven pressed the point harder into Fiora’s throat. “ _Yield_.”

Now Fiora glared, like Riven were insulting her.

Riven smacked her across the face with the flat of her blade. “I said yield, dammit!” she shouted, voice startling everyone with its volume.

“Why on Runeterra would she do that?” the director asked.

Riven threw a confused look over her shoulder.

The director’s brow was furrowed, his mustache waggling with annoyance. “The condition of victory is death; this duel doesn’t end until one of you falls to the blade of the other. I personally think it distasteful to turn it into an execution, but, please, do hurry. I didn’t expect this to take so long, and I have somewhere else I need to be.”

Riven shook her head to clear it, and she leaned in and spoke low. “I do not want to kill you. Surrender, and I will let you go-.”

“That won’t work.”

Riven turned her head. Ammdar had pushed his way through the throngs of the people until he stood on the sidelines, staring anxiously at both of them.

“What? Why not?” she asked.

The director chuckled, and so did some of the audience.

Ammdar looked stricken and pale, hands clenching nervously. “That won’t work,” he repeated softly.

“Why not?”

“Do you remember what we talked about? Last night?”

Fiora’s quest to restore family honor. Riven understood now.

She leaned down again, whispering harshly, “Do you really want to die? Does your honor mean that much to you?”

The glare she received said it all.

Riven scoffed in disbelief, eyes traveling up to the mosaic. The rose radiating rays of sunshine, the white petals contrasting the blue background. So blue and grey and gloomy. “You are mad. All of you are mad.”

“Ahem,” the director said, impatiently displaying his pocket watch.

But for her to look over to the director, her gaze first had to travel over Ammdar. Over his sweaty brow and his mournful expression and his terrified, earthy eyes.

She looked down at Fiora. By executing her, she was killing someone’s sister. Not the best sister on Runeterra, but she was still special to someone, and her passing would bring them grief. Her needless passing.

“You…” she said, but she didn’t know if she was talking to Fiora or herself, “are a pathetic fool.” She relieved the blade from her neck.

Fiora was many things when Riven relieved the blade from her neck, but grateful was not one of them.

“I refuse to kill you over something so petty.” Riven stood taller, looked the director in the eye, and said, “I yield.”

His jaw dropped, along with Ammdar’s and a large number of other spectators’, but Riven didn’t pay them any attention. She was already cutting a path to the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how'd you like it? I hope I didn't build this up only to disappoint you guys with a lackluster battle. I'd love feedback, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	21. Fighting and Dueling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is receiving so much support, and all I can do is thank you all! Unfortunately, as the summer comes to a close, I will be busier and unable to keep up the two-per-week schedule I have now. It will be more like one every two weeks, but I hope you can understand. I love writing this, so don't think I'm abandoning it!

**1 Year Ago**

 

Riven needed to leave. Demacia was no place for a Noxian, and this house was no place for an Ionian.

She would steal a horse from the stables and ride for Kumungu, and maybe check up on a few friends there. She doubted the guard would let her leave; what she’d done wasn’t exactly legal, and the duel may still be in session, but the halls were silent of footsteps. She’d head out the back way just to be sure.

Her satchel lay upon the fresh, wrinkleless covers of her bed, and she rifled through the contents. Satisfied that nothing was missing, she strapped her sheath to her waist and went to the dresser to cram some extra outfits into her bag. She tossed in a couple bars of soap from the bathroom- soap was a precious commodity outside of populated areas, and the good stuff was never cheap- and started for the kitchen to grab rations.

Footsteps rapidly approached from down the hall. There wasn’t the tinny sound of metal clinking against metal, so it wasn’t one of the guard. Riven pressed herself against the wall, hand on the pommel of her weapon.

She smelled cologne and a hammering heartbeat, and a moment later, Ammdar burst through the doorway, walking right past Riven and searching the room. He cursed when he found no one.

She moved like the wind, sweeping up behind him and clamping a hand over his mouth. She unsheathed her sword and pressed the point into his ribs, hissing into his ear, “Do not resist or cry for help or I will plunge my blade into your heart.”

He nodded vigorously.

It was an empty threat, but when she released him and he stumbled forward, he didn’t shout or raise alarm. Content that the situation was under control, she turned to leave.

“Wait!” Ammdar called, and she reluctantly paused.

“What?” she snapped, glancing over her shoulder.

“Please!” he said, closing the distance between them. “Don’t go! I know that’s what you’re doing, and I beg you not to go!”

“What reason do I have to stay?” she asked bluntly.

He fumbled for words, gesturing with his hands something Riven couldn’t understand, and he cringed when Riven huffed and turned away.

“Fiora needs you!” he blurted.

That stopped her in her tracks. “And how does that work out?”

He fumbled to grasp something again, settling on, “Please, just hear me out!”

Riven sighed. Ammdar could be simply stalling for time for the guard to find them, but he seemed like a decent person. He’d vouched for her innocence and he’d tried to cancel the duel, so Riven figured she owed him the five minutes he asked of her.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Alright, but make it quick.”

He nodded gratefully, launching into his tale. “Do you remember what I said to you last night?”

“Fiora did something wrong, and now she fights to restore your family honor.”

“Yes, but…” he rubbed his temples, his eyes squeezed shut, “it’s worse than that. You see, this mistake of hers cost Papa his life. Our father, I mean.”

“What can someone do that is so terrible, their father loses their life over it?”

“Don’t say it like that; she had no choice.”

“Of course not.”

“You know nothing about my sister!” he said with a snarl. “She is brusque and stubborn and quick on the draw, but she doesn’t kill without reason.”

“Ammdar,” she said with slack shoulders and an exhausted heart, “Every Demacian I have met so far has hated me. I fucked those that did not, and I do not recall waking up in your sister’s bed this morning, so you will have to forgive me if I do not see her in the same light as you.”

“Touché, but Mademoiselle,” he pleaded, “how would you feel if your father died because of you? A loved one losing their life because you made a mistake?”

Riven didn’t speak her answer, but her silence spoke volumes.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now Fiora… Papa and Fiora were very close, so his passing hit her harder than most of us. Fiora became not herself, but I don’t need to tell you what she’s like now. She wasn’t always this way, I can promise you that.”

“A tragic tale, surely, I do not-.”

He leaned in excitedly. “I saw her,” he said, and his earthy eyes were hopeful.

“You saw who?”

“Why, Fiora!” he exclaimed. “The old Fiora, the _real_ Fiora, not the angry corpse that breathed and talked! Don’t you see?”

“I have no idea what you are speaking of.”

Frustrated but too galvanized by hope to let it overcome him, he stepped closer. “As you battled, did you not see the fire in her eyes? Did you not see the grim determination set upon her face?”

“She was very enthusiastic,” Riven remarked thoughtfully.

“Yes!” he said gleefully, jittering on adrenaline and compelled by some unnaturally strong force. “ _That_ is Fiora! The ferocity, the furious determination, the sheer power of will! I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but for those brief moments where you were locked in battle, you freed her, and she was Fiora de Laurent once more!”

She raised a hand. “Calm,” she commanded, but his spirit refused to be quashed.

“I will _not_ be calm, not when something so momentous has occurred! Not when Fiora has a chance to own anything but the hate of countless families.” His defiance morphed to urgent pleading, and he leaned in. “I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but you brought her back. Don’t you understand? You brought her back! You can’t just go romping off into the sunset and leave her to live a life of misery.”

“Her health has been none of my concern since the duel ended,” Riven said coldly.

“We could compensate you, if that’s what you wish,” Ammdar said, and Riven could ask for anything in the world and Ammdar would find a way to give it to her, he was that desperate.

“What would I do?” Riven asked, clueless. “I am no therapist, and if you think I will be her ear to talk to, you are sorely mistaken.”

“No, nothing like that,” he said, frowning at the floor as he raced for ideas. He paced restlessly, one hand cradling his mug and the other perched on his hip. “It must be something energetic, something physical, something she has to work for. Something that leaves her dripping in sweat and satisfaction when the deed is done, something that has her coming back for more...” He gave her an odd look from the corner of his vision.

Her lip curled at the suggestion. “I am _not_ a prostitute, Ammdar.”

His brow furrowed in disgust. “What? Of course not! Why would I ever ask such a thing from you?”

“You-, you were saying-,” Riven shut herself up before she made more a fool of herself, biting the inside of her lip and staring at the ceiling.

Ammdar clapped his hands, “Aha!” the spark of an idea in his eyes. “Sword lessons!” he exclaimed. “An excuse to clash blades, and something she would genuinely find interest in. It’s perfect!”

She shook her head. “I am a fighter, Ammdar, not a duelist. Apparently, there is a difference between the two.”

“Then teach her to fight!”

“It is not that simple.”

“I know perfectly well how simple it is, and I know a woman of your capabilities will have minimal trouble in doing so.”

She shook her head. “No. I mean no offense to you or your family, but there are plenty more interesting places than a misty mansion in the middle of nowhere.”

“You will be compensated.”

“I do not care.”

“Two hundred crowns per lesson.”

Two hundred crowns.

Riven’s face of stone remained unchipped, but beneath it she was gawking. That was more money than she’d collectively possessed over the past year, and that was just one lesson. Multiple lessons per week would yield staggering amounts.

Then again, Demacian crowns were only useful in Demacia and certain cities in the Freljord, both of which being places Riven was either a convicted criminal in or banned from ever returning to. There was a decent exchange rate between Piltovian dollars and Demacian crowns, but Piltover was too choked with smog for Riven to consider returning to.

Still, two hundred crowns was two hundred crowns…

“Double that, and maybe I will think it over.”

“I’ll throw in a suite from the top floor and I’ll clean your slate of charges.”

“You can do that?”

A mischievous smirk. “As the richest family in Demacia, we have a great influence in the way this country is governed.”

“I never was one for politics.”

“You don’t strike me as the type,” he said, then he extended his hand expectantly. “Do we have a deal, Master Yi?”

A hefty income, a comfortable bed, and a fresh start. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she were settling down for the rest of her life.

She watched him fidget uncomfortably with his extended hand for a moment. It was always in moments of doubt that liars betrayed themselves with their body language, but Ammdar was no liar. She took his hand and shook.

“I believe so.”

 

**ooooo**

 

Dinner was an eight course masterpiece of a meal consisting of two appetizers, a salad, a soup, three entrées including a duck dish Riven couldn’t pronounce, and finished with crème brûlée. Riven hadn’t eaten so much food in one sitting since that feast celebrating her promotion to Commander of Fury Company.

The De Laurent dining hall was as opulent as was to be expected, with a tall ceiling, blue banners trickling down walls of grey stone, framed portraits of those who came before, and a long, rectangular table of smooth, lacquered wood. The chairs were sculpted and cushioned, and a chandelier of rose-scented candles shed watery light upon the silver cutlery.

Fiora was nowhere to be seen. Riven had dined alone the previous night, but there were plates and silverware prepared for two, and Ammdar didn’t like to eat at the table. She wasn’t too surprised; she had denied her an honorable death, but Riven couldn’t imagine a decent reason to miss such a marvelous lineup of dishes.

Ammdar said he was going to attempt peaceful negotiations with his sister, but Riven could hear the shouting from here. Their arrangement might not work out as planned, but Riven wasn’t concerned. Her purse was already four hundred crowns heavier for the first lesson the next day.

 

**ooooo**

 

The mist never disappeared. At night, when the baying wolves announced a successful hunt, the fog lingered through the surrounding forests, drifting around tree trunks like a river. The moon shone through occasional clear patches, like moments of lucidity in a victim of madness, but the fog always reigned supreme.

It was still there in the morning when Riven threw open the doors to the balcony attached to her room, and she watched the ocean of grey generously swell across the hills and lick away the gardens of red roses until they were naught but silhouettes in the gloom.

Meditation was easy, the air clean, cold, and dewy, and she soon fell into a steady rhythm of breath in the nothingness. 

Nightmares still haunted her on a regular basis, but she was stronger now. She’d learned to sleep on her stomach with her face pressed into her pillow; the cloth muffled her screams that way, and she wouldn’t needlessly worry anyone within earshot.

But she’d had a strange dream that night, stranger than usual. Hana’s head spoke to her again, whispering something that Riven couldn’t hear, and then she’d fallen into the lake beneath her feet. Normally, the blood would envelope her, dragging her down into the depths and she would drown with useless limbs, but that wasn’t what happened.

Instead, the blood came in thorny tendrils, seeping from the blackness below. They wrapped around her, but they didn’t touch her; they only circled close enough for the barbs to cut and slice. They crept up her body, around her feet and nicking her calves, up her thighs, her stomach, her chest, and Riven could only watch as the thorns approached her neck.

But the pain never came. Suddenly, the thorns sprouted into beautiful roses, and the silken petals brushed against the column of her throat and she shivered. She breathed in before she could remember she was underwater, but she didn’t snort water. Only the sweet, flowery scent of roses entered her nostrils, placating her thumping heart into a gentle beat. And then the bouquet lifted her up, carrying her to the surface.

She awoke startled, but unafraid. She had a plethora of questions, but no one to ask them to, so she shook it off and prepared for a new day.

A breeze chilled her flesh, and she smiled as it rushed through her damp hair. It was good to talk to an old friend.

_How are you, Riven?_

_Why, I’m just fine. How are you?’_

_Oh, you know._

_Restless?_

The breeze smiled amicably.

_Yup. You’d better get ready; you have an interesting day ahead of you._

The breeze whipped into a warm gust, rustling her ashen hair like a snowy blizzard until it was dry and smooth, and it gently abated until the strands tickled the nape of her neck.

“You’ve got that right,” she said.

She returned indoors, strapping her sheathed weapon to her hip, and then she descended to the ground floor for breakfast. She ate alone, and she ate lightly so as not to hinder herself for the day’s session. Then she made her way to the Hall of Blades.

There were no showers of rose petals and no throngs of spectators, and Fiora was absent. Riven was completely alone, her only company the grey light petering through the mosaic and the distant scuff of feet. They couldn’t make the room any more depressing if they tried.

Riven lowered to her knees, lay her blade before her, and returned to meditation.

The scheduled time for the session came and passed, and still Riven remained alone. She had nowhere to be, and she was already paid, so she stayed where she was: basking in the grey light, giving off a green tinge of her own.

Footsteps atop the stairs.

A light tap on the top of her head. A petal brushed her nose, and she opened one eyes.

She took each stair step one at a time, jewel-encrusted gauntlets of gold crossed behind her lower back. Her plump lips were scrunched, and her icy eyes froze Riven’s heart; she should patent that tactic. Riven waited until her feet were on the ground floor before she reacted.

“Hello,” Riven said coolly, returning to the peace behind her eyelids.

The response was a long blade sliding from its sheath.

Riven didn’t budge, and the rune on her sword remained the same, soft green. There was a piercing silence between them that persisted for longer than Riven expected.

“So are you going to stand or are you going to sit there all day?” Fiora asked in that brusque, dismissive tone of hers.

Without opening her eyes, Riven reached up and bunched her hair together, using the band around her wrist to secure her ponytail. She preferred it drawn out of her face in dangerous situations so she wasn’t fighting an opponent and her hair at the same time. She opened her eyes and stood, weapon in hand.

“Before we begin, I must know if you are willing to actually listen and learn,” Riven asked.

A disdainful huff of air through her nose. “I don’t know that there’s much to teach me.”

And that settled it. “Very well,” Riven said, and she picked up her satchel from the ground, turned, and walked to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Fiora called.

“You said it yourself; there is nothing I can teach you.”

She was almost to the hallway when Fiora cried, “Don’t go!”

Riven paused, turning to look over her shoulder. “And why would I stay?”

“I paid four hundred crowns for this, and I won’t have you waltzing out the door without at least something to show for.” Her face was neutral, but her eyes spoke of a need that was more than just financial reasoning, something Riven couldn’t discern because the woman was a block of ice. A block of ice with curves, but still cold and stalwart.

Riven loitered for a moment, deciding whether this was a good idea, and she eventually returned to be showered by petals. “Alright. Are you ready?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Riven ignored the snarky response and lowered into a combat stance, and analyzed Fiora’s as she did the same.

It was an odd stance; overall, it was one of a fencer, but it wasn’t a single style Riven could recognize. There were bits and pieces of several different styles, like Fiora had chosen the parts that suited her and what stood with a straightened spine before Riven was the amalgamation of a variety of techniques. Fiora wasn’t boldly rushing her in a frontal assault like she had the day before, but her guard was more focused on being poised and ready to strike than it was being defensive.

A style custom tailored that focused on counters and ripostes, and with as fine a blade as Fiora leveled at her throat, Riven wasn’t surprised so many had perished fighting her.

Riven would need to initiate, or they’d stand there staring until the sun set.

The strike was experimental, a way to draw Fiora from her perch to see how she hunted when she wasn’t furious. Riven wasn’t disappointed. Fiora smacked the strike down and lunged, and Riven parried the point away. Fiora doubled back, thrusting again, and Riven did something completely off the wall, something entirely unthinkable; she engaged in bodily contact.

Riven parried, edge of her darksteel grinding down Fiora’s bluesteel all the way to the hilt, and when Fiora was struggling to restrain Riven’s colossal strength, Riven reached out and grabbed Fiora’s wrist. It was quick, a simple maneuver that torqued the joint until reflex splayed Fiora’s hand in pain, and the rapier was transferred into Riven’s waiting fingers.

Fiora stood there, hand grasping dumbly at the air, eyes wide in astonishment, spluttering to speak coherently.

“You-! That was-!” she said, grasping at straws and failing to yield anything. “How-?”

“I can teach you to fight,” Riven said, “but if dueling is your passion, then I am afraid I can do nothing to help you.” She looked down at the blade in her hands.

To say it was master crafted would be an insult to its quality. The guard was a work of art, a swirling sculpture chiseled to the likeness of a rose cast in a flawless coat of gold. A layer of stretched sharkskin wrapped around the handle formed to fit Fiora’s hand specifically, and the pommel was simple in shape and small in size.

Bluesteel was arguably the best material that a sword could be made from as it was light, more robust most any other metal when properly forged, and was easily enchanted due to its formation around hextech crystals. Unfortunately, the conditions required for bluesteel to form at all were incredibly strict and incredibly unlikely in occurance, and thus, bluesteel was even rarer than hextech crystal and more expensive per unit than a penthouse flat in Piltover.

And with a blade like this, shined to a mirror sheen where the faintest of candlelight glowed like a bonfire upon the flat, sharpened until it cut mist in half; this rapier alone must be worth more than the mansion and the grounds it sat upon.

“Gorgeous,” Riven remarked.

“It was my father’s, and before him his father’s, and before him his father’s, and so on and so forth until the creation of House Laurent. It’s very special to me, and I’d like it back.”

Fiora reached for it, and rather than toy with her, Riven let her take it from her hands. It wasn’t her type of blade anyways. She swished the blade through the air, then reassumed a stance.

Riven struck first again, a thrust with power that couldn’t be parried by someone with Fiora’s lean strength, and Fiora recognized this. She dodged backwards, her riposte a thrust so fast, it caught Riven in the middle of her recovery. With no time to raise her on weapon and bat the strike aside, Riven committed the unthinkable for the second time that day; she willingly stepped from the carpet.

Riven dodged sideways, and Fiora was so taken aback by this breach in procedure that she fumbled to parry Riven’s lunge. Fiora would’ve felt death’s embrace if Riven hadn’t noticed and halted her progress an inch before it would’ve struck.

And yet, there wasn’t anger or outrage. There was more spluttering, more grasping at something intangible, but most of all, there was more of that hidden need in her eyes. A necessity for something; not a yearning, but a requirement, like it was just as essential as breathing or eating. A moment of analysis passed before Riven realized what it was from how Fiora impatiently reassumed her stance.

A hunger for _more_.

So Riven gave it to her. She disarmed her with grappling, cut her wrists and nicked her cheeks, knocked the wind from her with fists and feet, and even though Fiora was bruised and bleeding and sweaty and out of breath by the end, the hunger had exacerbated into something more. A full-fledged addiction.

“Wait!” Fiora cried when Riven sheathed her weapon and turned to leave. “Where are you going?”

Riven glanced back. Fiora looked like a wild animal, her hair a birds nest, her eyes wild and starving and confused, her hands trembling. She was covered in scrapes and scratches, her face was bruised, and she was limping.

But the light in her eyes was intense and unyielding.

“You are limping,” Riven remarked. “I do not wish to permanently injure you.”

“I am not weak. I can still fight,” she insisted through a split lip. Perhaps Riven should’ve been easier on her.

“It is not you whose wrath I worry about,” she said.

Fiora scoffed. “Ammdar? Please, he’s too polite to do anything but glare. Now,” Fiora limped forward a step, “I demand that you come down here and resume the lesson!”

“No.” Riven ascended the stairs.

“I’ll pay you!” She frantically limped forward, forgetting the dominant charade when it became clear it wouldn't work. “I’ll pay for another lesson!”

Riven stopped and stared. She was like a beggar on the streets, pleading for more money to get her fix.

“Please!”

Riven sighed, carding her fingers through her hair. “Alright, but if I incur the wrath of your brother, I will blame you.”

Fiora nodded, dismissing Riven’s concerns with a wave. “Alright, alright.”

Then she raised her trembling blade and they were back at it again.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven almost ate dinner alone again, but just as the hors d’oeuvres walked through the kitchen doors, Fiora appeared from the hallway. She didn’t say anything, barely glancing in Riven’s direction, and she made directly for her seat at the head of the table.

All was well and awkward, Fiora staring blankly at her food, until the first bottle of wine emerged on a silver platter, and suddenly Fiora was interested in something other than keeping an unfriendly silence. The servant poured a respectable amount in Riven’s glass.

When the servant moved to fill Fiora’s, she raised her hand and spoke something in Higher Demcian. An uneasy look passed over the servants face, and they tentatively asked something, to which Fiora snapped angrily wished her away. The servant bowed an apology and quickly walked away, leaving the bottle behind.

Riven forced herself not to stare as Fiora poured what seemed like half the contents of the bottle into her own glass. And she didn’t sip the wine so much as she guzzled it, and while Riven wasn’t educated in the hobby of wine tasting, she was fairly certain that wasn’t the correct way to go about it. However, Riven didn’t comment.

By the end of the third course, Fiora was halfway through her second glass. The effects were visible, but remarkably subtle for as much as she’d consumed. A little less coordination in the application of her knife, slightly glazed eyes, and a posture that wasn’t quite what it was when she’d first seated herself. Riven merely shrugged it off and finished the course.

Then the seventh course rolled around, and Riven understood the servant’s hesitation. Fiora wasn’t exactly drunk, but tipsy was an understatement. Perhaps it was the farthest end of tipsy, the line between completely wasted and giggly, but Fiora wasn’t a giggly drunk. Her hand-eye coordination was shot, and she’d opted to just tear everything to pieces with her fork. Her eyes were foggy, and her posture had slumped.

Riven glanced out of the corner of her eye for no more than a second, but Fiora caught it.

She narrowed her eyes, fixing Riven with a drowsy gaze. “What?” she demanded, voice slow and slurred.

“You have an impressive appreciation for your wine,” Riven said, but impressive wasn’t the right word. Appalling, maybe revolting, but not impressive.

Fiora snorted. “Hah! You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”

Riven didn’t answer.

“If I were drunk, could I do this?” Fiora pinched the blade of her knife between her thumb and forefinger, raised the knife in front of her, and closed one eye. The edge didn’t waver and neither did her concentration, and she coiled the blade up over her shoulder and whipped it across the room.

If anyone were in the seat on the opposite end of the table, they would’ve taken a knife through the heart. Fiora gloated a grin, cradling her chin in her hand while she leaned across the table.

Riven shook her head and returned to her food. The roast was flavorful and tender, the skin flaky and basted in salt and brine. The chefs knew what they were doing. She glanced over.

Fiora was staring at her blatantly, leaning on her elbow for support. Riven tried to ignore the way she looked her over like… like something, but Riven didn’t know what.

“You’re prettier with your hair down,” Fiora commented nonchalantly.

Riven choked. “Thank you?”

“Hmm.”

The silence persisted, and Fiora’s eyes never left her. Riven’s cheeks tingled, but she was a master of her own face, so she kept outwardly calm and chewed on. It was just a wayward comment of a drunken woman, something mindlessly said when one has no control over their impulses.

“Well,” Fiora said with finality, “I’m going to go sleep in my bed.” She stood gradually, hands braced on the arms of the chair for support, and she took an unsteady step. “G’night,” she mumbled, and she unsteadily sauntered away.

Even when drunk, there was grace in her walk. A loopy kind of grace, the kind that wandered aimlessly to and fro, but there were still fragments of tempo and rhythm. It was just wider, slower, more exaggerated, and absolutely captivating. The long, purposeful strides, the steady bounce of her dainty shoulders, the pale, luscious flesh of the nape of her neck, the voluptuous sway of her hips…

“Mademoiselle?”

The servants voice startled her, which was no easy feat, but Riven concealed it with a stray glance to the maid standing by holding another platter.

“Yes?”

“Another course is ready. For this dish, we have-.”

“Does she do that often?” Riven asked, staring after Fiora while she struggled to navigate a straight hallway. “Drink too much, I mean?”

The maid sighed. “Every night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it, and I also hope to see you next chapter!


	22. Stars and Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to Wallflower, Bumblebeez, and wenseul50 for consistently providing feedback! I couldn't do it without you guys, and to everyone else that comments, a shout out to all of you, too!   
> Please enjoy another chapter.

**1 Year Ago**

 

Riven heard it before she saw it: the thump-thump of a wildly hammering heart, the pounding of a legion of paws sprinting through the underbrush, and the huffing breath of the prey.

Then they broke through the bushy tree-line, a bolt of tawny fur followed by a league of snarling, grey wraiths. Riven watched them from the balcony, having just begun her early morning meditations when the chase had interrupted her peaceful placidity. Though they were all the way across the dark, rolling landscape and behind the black, wrought-iron fence bordering the lawn, she could smell the earthy pelts of fur, the coppery tang of blood, and the reeking fear.

A deer pursued by a pack of wolves.

The wolves were closing in, but the deer never surrendered to exhaustion, even when defeat was inevitable. The deer was at the fringes of the forest, a pack of wolves behind it, a forest to its right, and a high fence to its left; it had nowhere to run, and still it ran.

Riven wondered if she looked like that. Running with nowhere to go, a horde of angry predators swarming behind her, gradually tiring from the chase that never ended…

Then the deer did something unexpected: it turned and jumped the fence, free from its pursuers who howled in anguish from their empty stomachs. They would sulk back to their den without prey that night, and that was how the world was. Some times the predators ate, and other times, the prey eluded capture.

But the deer’s freedom did not come without cost, for in the process of jumping the fence, it gored itself on a metal spike. When it landed on the lawn, it wobbled unsteadily on its legs, and it only ran for a handful of moments until it collapsed.

Riven felt a sudden urge to go to it, and she didn’t know why. Something about how helpless it was.

She leapt from the balcony, the wind rushing through her hair, and as she approached the ground, a blustery gust slowed her descent. She touched down with grace of a twirling leaf landing softly on the veranda, and then she sprinted toward the deer with the wind at her back.

Its cries of pain stirred Riven’s soul, and as she neared, she slowed. It was a doe, and it carried the signs of recently giving birth. That meant its faun was likely alone somewhere in the forest, easy prey for the pack.

It startled when she came close, trying to stand but exhaustion weighed down its limbs so it could only kick at the ground in terror.

Riven extended her hands, showing how they were empty. “I mean you no harm,” she said in Demacian. The sharp syllables and guttural pronunciations of Urr Nox tended to frighten animals. “I will not hurt you.”

_Don’t fret; I’ll calm her_ , the Wind said, and then it whispered across the plains and over her fur and into her ear. The kicking gradually ceased, and the doe calmed and lay her head down in the grass.

Riven walked carefully around to her back and sat on her knees in the cool grass, depositing her satchel beside her. The doe snorted, her breath labored with exhaustion from the run and from the injury on her belly. Riven cautiously rested a hand on her heaving flank.

The doe shifted her head, but protested none.

Riven smiled softly. “There we go.” She sifted her fingers through her soft fur, dislodging knots and picking off pieces of dirt. “See? I am not a threat.”

Even in the gloom of a grey, misty sky, the doe’s tawny pelt contrasted gorgeously against the dark green of the dewy grass. White spots pocked her reddish-orange pelt that was smooth and soft like silk between Riven’s fingers, and more white spread across her belly and up under her neck.

And when she turned her head and looked at her, Riven drowned in her eyes. Her golden eyes deeper than Riven could see in the darkness, and in the depths, Riven saw the whole night sky glittering with stars. She was staring into the whole, starry universe, and the whole, starry universe stared back. She lay her head down again, her eye glancing to Riven every few moments.

Riven stroked her whole flank, observing how the fur stood on end when rubbed the wrong way.

“You poor thing,” Riven whispered, staring at the splotch of scarlet on her stomach. “I could kill you, you know. I could do it right now, put you out of your misery and satiate my hunger with your flesh.”

The deer was watching her the entire time, and Riven looked into her eyes again. She could see galaxies and a rainbow of swirling nebulas and an entire plain of stars.

“But I will not,” Riven said, and the doe snorted. “That would not be fair, would it? To escape the wolves only to run into something else that wants your meat for supper. That would not be fair at all.”

She picked another barb from her pelt, flicking it away.

“You have been running for quite some time now, haven’t you?” Riven commented.

The doe huffed air through her nose, closing her eyes. she shifted, but not from the pain; from running for so long, and Riven realized that it wasn’t the injury keeping her in place. It certainly slowed her down, but through stroking her fur, she’d discovered her frame was taut with hard muscle that could run like the wind.

“You could keep running, couldn’t you?” Riven asked. “You could stand up right now despite your wounds and you could run forever. You are just too tired, aren’t you?”

A sigh from the doe.

An understanding smile creeped across Riven’s face. “You just need someone to pick you up.” She looked down her flank, eyes settling on the blood pooling around her stomach. “You just need a little help.”

She slowly stood and circled around, crouching at her belly and looking to the doe for permission.

The doe resettled her head so she could watch Riven, but she otherwise didn’t object.

After digging through her satchel, Riven retrieved what she needed, and she seated herself in the grass. The wound wasn’t very deep, but it was bad enough that immediate medical attention was required lest the poor thing bleed out or suffer from infection. It wasn’t so bad that her entrails spilled from the cut, however, and Riven laid out her materials in a logical order.

First, she cleaned the wound of all foreign agents as best she could. The medicine she used stung, and she’d only lightly tapped the damaged tissue before the doe’s leg twitched and she let loose a pained shriek.

Riven leaned back. “Woah, woah!” she said. “Be calm, or this will only hurt worse,” she whispered, and the wind swept a soothing gale through the trees and across the hills and into the doe’s ear. The doe relaxed, and Riven put a gentle, empathetic hand on her flank. “I know it hurts, but this is necessary. Trust me; pain is a natural part of healing.”

She was more careful in her application of the medicine after that, and the doe twitched lightly every so often, but mostly remained tranquil.

Then, Riven started with the stitches. They couldn’t stay because Riven might not have the chance to remove them once their purpose was fulfilled, and the string could catch on a passing twig and cause problems, but she needed them there for the moment. It was slow procedure, a careful procedure, but Riven eventually tied the string off.

Then Riven retrieved her small, stone mortar and pestle and the ingredients for the salve.

A seed for the magical spark it would provide, because all magical concoctions first needed a source of magic. She whispered the prayer and it glowed.

A lavender petal of a flower that only grew in fall seasons of the Shurima. It would be the conductor, the thing through which the magical current would pulse through, and it would assign the magical current its duty. This salve would heal.

A bit of fur from a yeti that once dwelled in the mountains of the Freljord. It would be an insulator, something to ensure that any magical disruptions wouldn’t explode violently.

And various other non-magical ingredients, because magic wasn’t a panacea.

She put them all in the mortar and then she ground them into a fine, chartreus paste with the pestle. She inspected it with her fingers at first, noticing how the minor cut on her thumb cooled and then healed over.

“This might feel cold at first, but it will assuage the pain,” Riven said to the doe, and then she took some of the paste into her fingers and smeared some on the wound.

The doe sighed in relief, and the tenseness in her limbs abated as the pain did.

Riven smeared a little more, and when she was certain the skin would stay sealed shut on its own, she began to remove the stitches. When she was done with that, she smeared the rest of the salve onto the wound. She’d done all she could at that point- more severe wounds took greater time for the salve to heal- so she cleaned the scratches and claw marks on her hind legs while she waited for the medicine to mend the flesh.

She combed her fingers through the doe’s fur while the injury gradually disappeared. “You did well. Most are not as calm as you.”

The doe huffed.

Something caught Riven’s eye to the left. An apple peeking out from her satchel. She picked up and cleaned it on her shirt, and then she placed it where the doe could reach. The doe sniffed it warily, stealing an experimental bite, but once she deemed it red and delicious, it was gone in an instant.

Riven stood. “The cut should be properly healed by now. Do you want to try-?”

The doe clambered to her hooves before Riven could finish her sentence. She didn’t jet off like Riven expected, instead lingering near.

Riven scanned the misty horizon and found a gate in the fence not far off. She motioned to the doe. “Come. I will let you out.”

They tread across the quiet hills, Riven’s footsteps accompanied by the clop of hooves and the silent voice of the wind who calmed her furry companion whenever something starling occured. The doe sniffed the grass all the while, huffing her satisfaction. Or dissatisfaction; Riven knew several languages, but deer was not one of them.

They arrived at the gate, and Riven inspected the lock. She tried the key she was given, but it didn’t work for whatever reason. Undeterred, Riven pulled out a set of small pins inserted into a rolled leather wallet.

“I met a man who picked locks for his living in Piltover, once,” she said, concentrated on the fine details of her work. “It was tragic, really; most of Piltover was converting to hextech locking mechanisms at the time, and his trade was dying out. He thought that by teaching me his skills, he was somehow passing on his legacy. But I already have a legacy to take care of.”

The pins were aligned, and when she twisted, the padlock snapped open. She undid the chain and pushed outwards, the gate creaking die open.

“Alright,” Riven said. “This is where you leave. The wolves are long gone, so you should be safe.”

As the doe trotted forward, the mist thickened until it was impossible to see more than twenty strides ahead. Riven’s skin crawled as a sudden chill took hold, and she listened for anything supernatural; wraiths were always accompanied by a heavy fog, but there were no wraiths. Riven watched the doe walk into grey oblivion.

Except it stopped right at the fringe of the mist, and it turned to look at her.

Riven saw the entire heavens in her eyes, a black, velvet blanket splashed by rhinestones. She saw the sun and the stars, and then there were constellations shifting through the sky like they were alive. Riven saw the mouse that squeaked to save the princess scurrying around nebulas, saw the starry frame of Aurelion Sol who conjured a fiery galaxy with one breath.

And then she saw a man with seven eyes and his sword forged of stars standing on the astral plains. He bowed once, and Riven shivered.

“Who are you?” she called.

The doe said nothing, turned around, and walked into the mist.

When the fog receded a second later and Riven could see for acres instead of mere strides, the doe was nowhere to be found.

 

**ooooo**

 

Something stirred in her chest while she watched Yi nurse the deer to health. Fiora hadn’t known Yi to be an animal person, or an anything person, at all, but she had a way about her that was naturally pacifying. Be it her hard looks or her calm demeanor, there was something about her that soothed the soul and induced a trustworthy tranquility in anyone she met.

Or maybe that was just Fiora; most of the house servants frowned upon their guest when she wasn’t looking.

But how could anyone frown on someone so passionate? Someone so caring for the life around them? Fiora didn’t know, and she didn’t think she’d ever know.

The deer shrieked and bucked, and Fiora inadvertently winced; she thought Yi would be eating her teeth because the deer kicked them in. However, the Master leaned in and whispered something to it, and its convulsions, along with its cries of pain, ceased. She continued to work, rifling through her rucksack whenever she was in need.

She was so absorbed in her work that Fiora could probably take her by surprise for once.

After a time, they both stood on sturdy legs. The deer showed no signs of pain or disability, and they walked as casually as if they were friends. Fiora’s gaze never left them, or rather it never left the mop of white hair, and eventually they were just an outline in the mist. A colorful shadow on a colorless wall.

However, Fiora knew the gate was locked and that the key provided only opened the front gates, and she was about to call someone over and send aid when the Master emerged from the veil alone.

She was resourceful, but Fiora already knew that. And the more Fiora learned about this woman, the more she wanted to know. She was so much more interesting than the stereotype of the simple Noxian with blood on her mind, and Fiora did, though she would never admit it, feel some regret for her initial misgivings about the Master.

A clock chimed somewhere. Fiora’s heart jumped; it was time for the lesson. The highlight of her day, the greatest thrill of her life, the reason she tried anymore. One last, lingering look out the window, and she turned around and-.

“You know, I could swear Mama and Papa said something about spying on someone at a distance, but maybe I’m mistaken?”

Fiora rolled her eyes. Ammdar was leaned on the doorway, blocking her exit from the room with his mischievous grin.

“Fuck off, Ammdar.”

He frowned. “Now I’m fairly certain they said something adverse about swearing-.”

“Ammdar, move out of the way.”

Ammdar threw his hands up, but he didn’t surrender.

Fiora’s cheek twitched.

“All I’m saying,” he said in tone that implied he was trying to help her, “Is that if you’re so _interested_ in her, perhaps talking with the woman face-to-face would be better than staring at her from a distance through the window.”

Her lips pursed; she was in control of her face and her emotions until two very particular people happened to be in the room, and unfortunately, Ammdar was the lesser entertaining and more obnoxious of the two. “I am not interested in Mademoiselle Yi.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not!”

“Then why are you spying?”

“It’s not spying, it’s-, it’s-!”

“Observing their every move from a distance?”

Her jaw taut, she tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling or anything that wasn’t Ammdar’s smug face. “I am _not_ spying, and I’m certainly not _interested_ in Mademoiselle Yi.”

“Say whatever you want; I can see the truth in your eyes!”

Fiora stepped forward with her left foot leading, and she whipped her right upwards. The pointed toe of her heel collided with Ammdar’s groin, and he could do nothing but whimper and drop like a sack of rocks.

“Hmpf,” she huffed as she gracefully stepped over his curled body and walked down the hall.

But it was all a façade; they both knew Fiora was sorer.

 

**ooooo**

 

This woman was so incredibly _fascinating_ and Fiora didn’t know why. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of her, forever stealing glances at the bandages covering her arms and up her back. She didn’t seem hindered by whatever injuries she concealed, but Fiora had never seen her without them.

And those eyes! Those _eyes_. Pools of crimson blood, so glossy and breathtaking and succulent and she just wanted to gobble them up.

Alright, so maybe Fiora had consumed a tad more of her Sauvignon than she’d meant to, but she was _not_ drunk. She would never let herself be one of those sad fucks whose whole life was wading in the bottom of a bottle because the rest of their world had gone to shit. She was stronger than that. She just needed a little liquid courage every now and then, that’s all.

“S’whaddya think of the war and all that bloody nonsense?” She asked.

Nope. Not drunk.

The one thing that did irk Fiora about this woman was her tendency to evade any question pertaining to where she came from, or what she liked to do, or anything personal whatsoever. Even now with the topic of the Noxian-Ionian war, she resorted to vague answers and generally appeared uncomfortable.

Fiora focused on the bandages of her arms while Yi tersely lied and jumped through any loopholes she could find. Curiosity was burning her up, and she wondered what could be so hideous that she’d be so desperate to hide it that she inadvertently called so much attention to it. In the background, Yi’s voice died off, and suddenly that bandaged arm disappeared below the table.

When Fiora looked up, Yi was avoiding eye contact and shifting uneasily. It seems she’d been caught.

She needed to handle with this situation with tact, something she was in no shortage of, considering she was forced to deal with executives and ambassadors from foreign countries on a regular basis. She needed to prompt a question that would naturally lead to somewhere where she could painlessly divulge what she needed.

Tact and cunning.

“S’what’s wrong with your arms?”

That didn’t come out quite right.

However, instead of cringing or appalling, Yi chuckled. A sound as gruff and soft as her voice, and soon she was laughing. Her shoulders heaved, and it rang like the tolling of a bell through the halls, though the bell was much less pleasant to listen to. Fiora even found herself laughing along with her, though she had no idea what was so funny.

When Yi finally reigned herself in, she covered her eyes while the chuckling died off. She took her hand away from her face, and rather than joy, there was sad amusement in the way she stared across the table.

“Nothing,” she admitted, sniffing. “There is nothing wrong with my arms.”

Fiora leaned in, intrigued. “Then why d’you hide them?”

No answer. She’d heard the question, but she was looking into her lap to avoid any eye contact.

Fiora cocked her head. “Is it scars?”

A quick glance, so quick that Fiora almost didn’t catch it. But she did, and she knew was on to something.

“Did you know I like scars?” Fiora asked.

Riven frowned. “How does someone like scars?”

“Easy,” Fiora said. “Scars are beautiful because each one tells a tale. Maybe it’s a cut from a narrow escape from pirates. Maybe it’s a burn sus-, sus-… _received_ in a battle with a dragon. A scar is a tattoo of victory. A scar is proof of a narrow escape from death. A scar says, ‘I survived.’ Because the dead don’t have scars, now do they?” she asked. “They have wounds, and they bleed and they bleed and they bleed.”

The woman was silent, staring at her plate. It was a numb kind of stare, the kind that Fiora had worn when Yi had first ripped her blade from her hand a month ago.

Without a word and without breaking eye contact with the plate, she stood quietly.

“Goodnight,” she said, and she briskly made for the exit.

“Goodnight, Madamoi-, Madem-… Master Yi.” Fiora responded.

She stopped, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Actually, that is not my true name.”

Fiora frowned. “It isn’t?”

She shook her head. “It is a long story, one I may share eventually, but… not now.”

“Then what _is_ your real name?” Fiora asked, and if she leaned any further forward, she was going to topple over.

She turned and looked Fiora straight in the eyes. “Riven,” she said. “My real name is Riven.”

“Riven,” Fiora repeated. “Rrrrriven.” She giggled; it sounded so funny on her tongue.

Riven made to leave, but she paused. She turned to look at Fiora straight again, but every time she engaged eye contact, her gaze shied away.

“I like your laugh,” Riven said. “You should do it more often.”

Fiora was too stunned to see how Riven’s cheeks blushed almost as hard as hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckin' hell, y'all have read twenty-two chapters into my story! This only gets longer from here, so I hope you all stick around. I hope to see you next chapter!


	23. Sins of the Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I forgot to celebrate 1,000 views! Thank you so much for clicking on my story, never mind reading this far! You all are amazing, and I couldn't ask for better readers!

**1 Year Ago**

 

Riven was slowly falling in love with Fiora’s laugh. It was so mirthful, so carefree, and so unlike her usual, cold demeanor. It was as elegant as the rest of her, something delicate yet loud, and occasionally, when she was bent over and tearing up, she snorted uncontrollably.

Now was one of those times, but Riven had done nothing to provoke such a reaction. Fiora had made her own joke, something about Demacian businessmen and their libidos, and now she couldn’t breathe because she was laughing so enthusiastically. All Riven could do was hide her dopey grin and think how much more attractive Fiora was when a smile tugged at her lips rather than a dour, dismissive frown.

Her eyes were prettier, too. Less like chips of ice and more like a set of sparkling sapphires, and they were just as unique and precious. Riven couldn’t stop staring.

But while she possessed the appeal of an angelic Demacian, she drank like a Noxian rogue, and that had Riven confused. Because she didn’t look like an alcoholic, but maybe that was the pound and a half of makeup doing its job. Because this drunken form of Fiora was someone completely different than the ice queen she was at every time of the day that wasn’t supper.

The puzzle was vexingly difficult to solve, and it ate away at her every night before she delved into nightmares. So much so, that Riven decided to confront it that night.

Fiora was descending from her high, her raucous laughter decaying into a soft giggle while she wiped her eyes clean.

Riven leaned forward, resting on her elbows with her hands clasped. “Fiora?” she asked.

She sniffled snot, shaking her head to clear it. “Yes, Riven?”

She was hesitant, but eventually, she asked, “Why do you only drink at dinner?”

The smile slowly melted from her face, and it was like someone had sucked all the blood and the energy from Fiora’s skin because it paled and suddenly, she looked years older than she actually was. Riven noticed the bags under her eyes for the first time, and the slump of her shoulders.

It was a single tear, at first. Just one tear crawling down her cheek, a diamond born from sad sapphires. A trembling lip. A sniffle.

Then she was weeping without restraint, covering her face with her hands. The tears flowed like waterfalls, and her shoulders shuddered with every sob. The kitchen tinkered softly, but other than that, there was dead silence.

“I’m a fucking wreck,” Fiora blubbered.

“I never said that,” Riven insisted, unsure of what to do.

“No,” Fiora said, trying to sniffle but it broke down into a sob, “no, but you’re-, you’re thinking it.”

Riven had no answer to that and she wished she did, because Fiora misinterpreted the silence and wept harder.

“I told myself,” she said with red, puffy eyes, sniffling snot, “I told myself that-, that I was only drinking just enough! Just enough to take the edge off.”

“What edge?”

Fiora sank lower into her chair with her face cradled in her hands. Her grief spilled from her eyes and her pain fell from her lips twisted with agony.

“I tried,” Fiora said, her voice cracking. “I really did! But I-, They-…”

Riven’s heart lurched. There was too much sorrow in this woman for one person to hide.

“I’m fucking pathetic, aren’t I?” she blubbered, bawling at her own self-realization.

Rive sternly said, “No one is saying that.”

“Yes they are,” she insisted, wiping her nose on her sleeve, “I’ve heard-, heard the rumors.”

She wept in silence after that, her grief pouring onto her empty plate and her heart bleeding. No one entered to check on them, and Riven was grateful. Fiora needed this time alone, and Riven considered leaving the room.

Then Fiora grabbed the wine bottle and lifted it to her lips, and Riven winced. She chugged the thing like it wasn’t something more expensive than Riven’s soul, and Riven shook her head. Fiora didn’t stop, tears trickling over her sharp cheekbones.

When she started squealing, Riven realized she was trying to drown herself.

“Fiora, stop that!”

She didn’t, eyes squeezed shut, fingers gripping the bottle with so much force, they were turning white.

“Fiora!” Riven shouted.

She started convulsing, and Riven couldn’t take any more. She stood and knocked the bottle from her lips, and Fiora coughed up lungfuls of liquor, gripping the table and struggling to breathe. Riven watched her the whole time, standing over her in case she did something else stupid.

But she didn’t. She just wept softly, face plastered in wine.

Fiora lifted her head slowly, a look on her face suggesting she was realizing what she’d just done. She wiped her eyes and her cheeks. “I must go,” she muttered, trying to stand.

Her supportive grip slipped, and she wasn’t coordinated enough to catch herself. Luckily, Riven swooped in and caught her before she whacked her head on the arm of the chair and finished what she’d started. Fiora protested, but Riven ignored her, slinging her arm around her shoulder and providing support.

They walked for several steps before Riven realized that Fiora was too drunk to walk even with aid, and she scooped her up into her arms. She carried her bridal-style, and suddenly, Fiora was strangely docile. Riven thought she’d passed out, but she could feel her stirring against her chest.

Riven stopped at the first servant she could find, and though the maid was surprised at the spectacle, she nonetheless gave the directions to Fiora’s room; up to the third floor and down the hall.

Fiora rested her head against Riven’s shoulder, and Riven could somewhat handle the lips partially pressed against her bare flesh, but the steady, hot breath tickling her collarbone was stoking a fire that hadn’t been quenched for a couple of months at least. Fiora was lightweight, so the stairs weren’t as difficult as they could be, but Fiora had a habit of pressing herself closer like she didn’t want Riven to drop her. Which would be a reasonable reaction, but her positioning resulted in her breathing directly into Riven’s ear.

Self-control was one of Riven’s greatest assets. It was what lent her clarity in times of insanity. It was what summoned all her fragments from the far corners of the world and made her whole again when she needed a sharp blade just as much as a sharp wit.

But she wasn’t sure how long that self-control would last if Fiora continued with that cursed breath upon her neck. To cope, she focused on how horridly she reeked of wine, but her hair smelled of rosy shampoo, and that resulted in an exacerbation of her twinging sanity.

However, they were at the third floor, and Riven could spy the open door down the hallway. Fiora’s room was just up ahead.

Then Fiora nuzzled up to her shoulder, and from Riven’s peripheral, Fiora was staring up at her.

“You’re not so bad, you know?” she slurred. “I thought you’d be one *hic* one of those crazy motherfuckers that *hic* that… that…”

Fiora kissed her.

She was obviously aiming for Riven’s lips, but she missed them in her drunken stupor and landed it on her jaw. Firoa didn’t seem to mind, swiping her tongue along her jawline and separating with a loud smack.

Riven’s heart stopped, and so did she. Breathing became difficult, and she forced herself to be calm. The doorway was just up ahead.

“You’re not so bad…” Fiora mumbled into her collarbone, delicate hand crawling up Riven’s chest.

A maid happened around the corner when Riven arrived at the doorway, and Riven was quick to hand her off. Her head was swimming, and she needed to think things through alone.

“Make sure she is okay,” Riven told the woman, gently letting Fiora onto her feet. Fiora complained at having to put forth any effort, but neither Riven nor the made cared. “And give her a shower, if you could,” she added.

Riven didn’t sleep a wink that night.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven found the study shortly after her first week of lessons, and from that day onward, when she wasn’t dueling with the Head of House Laurent or honing her blade’s edge, she was visiting this place of knowledge whenever the opportunity arose.

The room itself was large, two times as wide, three times as long, and twice as tall as any other room in the mansion, and the entrance resided on the second floor. On the wall opposite the entrance were two high windows, their velvety curtains parted so that the room may bask in the gray light of the outside world. And where there weren’t windows, there were magnificent bookcases that stretched from the floor to the ground chalked full off leather-bound novellas, paperback manuals, and collections of weathered volumes. 

To one side of the room was a monster of a desk, a bureau constructed from rich mahogany and boasting an abundance of drawers and storage spaces, all crammed with rolled documents, and pieces of stationary. An armchair harboring so much authority and sovereignty it may as well have been head of the house was tucked into the alcove beneath.

To the other side of the room was a couch and a reclining chair sitting side-by-side and facing a brick fireplace, and above the fireplace was a portrait of a man whom Riven thought was familiar. It was the cheekbones that gave it away; Monsieur De Laurent was a handsome man, with most of the features of his son and a few from his daughter. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

The fireplace roared, the crackling firelight dancing across the pages of A History of the Demacian Royal Lineage Vol. 4. An interesting read; Riven had no idea that anyone seeking the throne must first have succeeded in a Trial by Combat.

Footsteps padded through the entrance, and Riven looked over her book from her reclined position. Ammdar waltzed through the doorway, slowing down as his eyes appreciated the spines of countless titles.

“I used to believe books had souls,” he said distantly.

Riven’s brow quirked. “Pardon?”

“When I was young, I used to think these things had souls just like people.” He stepped to a shelf and removed a book, thumbing through the pages. “They were so interesting, so full of life and knowledge that I couldn’t believe they were simply scribblings on pages of paper. They spoke to me, and for a while, I spoke back. Then I grew up.” He shelved the book, hand lingering wistfully. “Growing up is not what they made it out to be.”

Riven looked to the books on the shelves, to the knowledge stored within. To the work of someone’s entire life, and to the blood and the sweat and the tears beside the beauty and the magic. She imagined this whole room was a city just for the people in the books, and the bottles of ink were their wells for water and the calloused hands of a wise man were the plains upon which they roamed.

“Perhaps they do,” Riven said. Ammdar glanced to her. “Perhaps they do have souls.”

Ammdar looked to the books again, gaze traveling up and down. A small smile spread across his face. “Aye. Perhaps they do.”

They listened to the books whisper their secrets, and to the fire throwing in its two crowns with a pop and a spark.

“This was Papa’s study,” he said, walking to the portrait above the fireplace. “We’d lose him for days in here. It was his favorite place.”

“It is quite a collection.” A thought occurred, and Riven sat up. “Should I be in here? I apologize, I never thought of-.”

Ammdar waved her down, “No, no, you’re fine!”

Riven relaxed, bookmarking her page and setting it down on the floor. “How did your father collect so many?”

“Have you forgotten where you are?” he asked crassly. “This is Demacia; honor is only rivalled by knowledge. And Papa, ever the intellectual, wouldn’t sit idly by and watch the old world be forgotten.”

Riven nodded.

“You know the entire southern wing is a library, non?” he asked, pointing to the other hall.

Riven smiled. “Yes, but this is where the good books reside. The private collection.”

“Ah, yes, the _good_ books,” he said sarcastically, stooping over to read the spine of one that looked much like hers. “Who could forget  A History of the Demacian Royal Lineage Vol. 2?”

“Actually, I found that one quite intriguing,” she said.

He turned his head, brow furrowed. “What-?” then he noticed the title written in golden lettering of the book on the floor beside her. He shrugged. “There are many strokes for different folks, I guess. That’s how the saying goes, non?”

“Something like that,” she said, withholding a smile. “I assume you did not come here to chat about your father’s library?”

“No, I did not,” he said. He pulled the armchair beside the couch around, placed it in front of her, and sat down. “I figured you’d want an explanation.”

Riven’s brow quirked for a moment, but then, “Oh, for the-.”

“For Fiora’s behavior,” he said. He rolled his neck, sighing. “I suppose you deserve the full story.”

Riven listened to the tapping of his foot, a nervous tell that she’d deduced after a few month’s talking. He looked up at her, his earthy, wary eyes weary from struggle.

“What did I tell you about Papa?” he asked.

“Something about how he died as consequence for Fiora’s mistake, nothing more.”

He nodded slowly. “So I haven’t told you anything, then.”

“Nothing past what I just described.”

“So I’ll start from the beginning.” He cracked his neck. “So what do you think of Fiora?”

Unprepared for the question, Riven formed an answer after a couple moments of thought. “She is brusque and distant. She does not like personal questions, and she certainly does not enjoy the company of others.”

Ammdar shook his head. “That is not Fiora at all. That is something Fiora has created to protect herself from harm. Now,” he leaned forward, “what do you think of Fiora when she is drunk?”

Riven frowned, but he nodded for her to continue regardless of her questions. “When she is intoxicated… she is impulsive. But she is much less distant and much louder. She laughs a great deal, too. She is actually a joy to be around, which is more than I can say for the majority of the drunks I have met.”

He was smiling faintly, staring at a memory Riven couldn’t see. “Ah, that sounds like Fiora.” His shoulders carried less tension, and there were traces of gaiety in his eyes. “When she was just a child, she was always asking ‘Why?’. ‘Why this?’ and ‘Why that?’ and ‘Papa, why don’t you just say what you mean?’”

“She sounds charming.”

“And she was stubborn,” he said, his brow furrowed but the smile still present. Like he was vexed by an amusing puzzle. He chuckled. “Mama and Papa did everything they could to make Fiora ‘normal’. They gave her dolls to play with, but she just gifted them to her maids. They bought sewing machines and mannequins to teach Fiora how to sew, but she used the machine as a paperweight and the mannequin as practice dummy. And always with the ‘Why?’s!”

Riven was never like that; she was always the opposite. Never asking questions, just doing what was asked of her. In retrospect, she wished she’d asked more questions.

“Do you remember when I said growing up isn’t what they make it out to be?” Ammdar asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Fiora found this out the hard way. She never grew out of the ‘Why?’ stage.” He sighed. “It was charming at first, but then she started to develop her sense of personal identity. Suddenly, she wasn’t waiting for an answer to ‘Why?’ anymore; she was finding out for herself. And she was deciding whether or not she liked the answer she found.”

Ammdar leaned on an elbow, gaze blank while he recounted the tale.

“The time came where Fiora was old enough to marry. I don’t know if you know this, but marriages are arranged in Demacia. And, of course, Fiora had to ask ‘Why? Why must I surrender my will to another person?’”

Riven asked, “She did not like the answer, did she? Free horses do not like to be corralled.”

“No. No, she did not.” A sort of sardonic irritation infiltrated his tone. “And she couldn’t come forth and talk this through, maybe negotiate with Papa, oh _no_. She had to wait until the day of the wedding to voice her concerns, say them to the whole damn crowd. Everyone was all gussied up and the husband was waiting for the bride at the altar and out comes Fiora, dressed in her sparring clothes to defy all expectations and deny her life as a political alliance between families.”

Riven was quiet while he rubbed the frustration from his eyes.

“It did not go well,” he said softly. “The husband was demanding reparations, and his family was demanding blood. Fiora stepped forward to defend the family name with her blade, as expected, but it was Papa’s duty to accept the challenges.”

“This obviously causes you pain,” Riven said, noticing the flustered cheeks. “You do not have to continue with this.”

“But I do. I do.” He chuckled suddenly, but rather than a laugh at something genuinely funny, it was a jab at the cruelty of fate. “This man Papa had to duel… Papa stood no chance. Fiora would have no trouble; I’d wager he wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds with Fiora.”

He sniffed, ruffling his hair with his fingers.

“But this man wasn’t dueling Fiora. He was dueling Papa.” Ammdar dropped his head, perhaps too ashamed to look at her. “He knew he was outmatched. He knew losing the duel would spell the end of House Laurent. So he…” Ammdar couldn’t say it.

Riven remained silent until Ammdar had gathered the courage he required.

“He poisoned the man. Or he tried to; they caught him on the way out. House Laurent was finished, and we were to be exiled by the following week,” he said.

But House Laurent was clearly not finished, so Riven patiently waited.

“There is a passage,” Ammdar said, and the words were difficult for him to say, so he said them slowly, “in the Code of Demacian Conduct-.” He noticed Riven’s confusion. “It’s an article detailing all of what a proper Demacian should be. In it is a passage that states that anyone and anything can wash away the sins of their family’s legacy with blood. Specifically, the person who committed the sins.”

Riven frowned. “She did not-.”

Ammdar was nodding. He looked like it all had just happened yesterday. “The duel was arranged; Fiora was to face Papa in a battle to the death. This family is built on a legacy of master duelists, and being the Head of the House, Papa was too. One of the best in Demacia.” Ammdar rubbed his eyes. “But Papa was not the best. Not on that day,” he softly concluded.

Riven said nothing; there was no way to respond to that. To a child forced to kill her father, or have her entire family thrown to the wild dogs. No words, except maybe, “I am sorry for your loss.”

He chortled, shaking his head. He peeked up at her, the smile on his lips desperate to blunt the edge with humor. “It gets worse, if you can believe it.”

Riven could believe it.

“It wasn’t just Papa that died,” Ammdar said. “Mama passed away within a few days of the duel. Dead from grief; her heart couldn’t handle the stress. And I’m not the only of Fiora’s siblings.”

“This is the first I have heard of this.”

“Fiora doesn’t like to talk about it.” When Ammdar held up his hands to count them all off, Riven knew it was bad. “First, there was the oldest of us, Frederick. He died in the latest Noxian-Demacian war. Fiora didn’t know him well, but the others of us did.”

The _latest_ Noxian-Demacian war. Sometimes, Riven forgot that the age before the Noxian-Ionian war wasn’t peaches and sunshine.

“I am the second oldest. Dorian was the second youngest. He blamed Fiora for Papa’s death, and he claimed Mama was the only reason he stuck around. When she died, he cursed Fiora and renounced his heritage. I haven’t seen the poor fool since.”

“Then there was Dominique. He left shortly after Dorian, but his reasons were less polite. If memory serves me correctly, I believe he called her a ‘stupid bitch that doesn’t know her place in this house, why she’s allowed to run her mouth is beyond me.’” Riven nodded slowly, and Ammdar picked up on it, shrugging helplessly. “He was a middle child; what can I say?”

“And then there was Abel.” He shook his head. “Did I call Dorian a poor fool? Because it was Abel who’s the poor fool. Thought he could defend our honor just like Fiora, but he had neither her skill nor her wit, and he swiftly found and opponent better than he. His grave sits next to Mama’s.”

“They were all gone within a week of the duel,” Ammdar said.

“That sounds rough.”

“No, you don’t understand,” and Ammdar leaned in with an angrily serious face, “Fiora killed a part of herself when she killed Papa, but when Mama died and when the rest left? Why, she took the pieces still alive and burned them.”

Ammdar calmed, but he was still deathly serious. “Do you understand now why Fiora drinks?”

Every person Fiora ever loved was dead or gone. All because of one mistake.

She had to face that every morning, and she had to look herself in the eyes whenever she glanced in a mirror. She had to stare at the murderer that killed her father and drove away everyone she cared about. She had to walk with that burden on her heart, and she had to suffer all the rumors and the ugly looks thrown her way.

She had to live in a world that hated her, and she had to stand tall despite all the death and the expectations and the crushing absences of those she loved weighing on her shoulders.

Yes, Riven understood now why Fiora drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like how this chapter turned out. Might redo it.   
> Hope to see you all next chapter regardless!


	24. From Boy to Man and Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy!

**11 Months Ago**

 

The first blow knocked Fiora’s blade aside, and she twirled it around and brought it back to a defensible position before the blink of an eye.

But it didn’t matter, because Riven swept her legs out from under. As she collided with the ground, she fluidly transferred her downward momentum into a somersault, rolling sideways.

Straight into the third blow that would’ve decapitated her, but Riven stopped with the edge hovering a hair’s breadth over Fiora’s throat.

Fiora froze, staring passionately upward. Her shoulders heaved with breath, and her hair raven hair was plastered to her forehead. Riven stared back, her weapon’s edge never wavering and looking considerably less exhausted. But looks were only skin deep, and she could see that the fire in Fiora’s eyes hadn’t flickered for a moment.

“So,” Fiora said.

“So?” Riven asked.

“I’m sweaty and on my knees before you,” she said, never once breaking eye contact. “What will you have me do?”

The corner of Riven’s mouth tugged upward. “What would you have me do?”

Fiora’s eyes twinkled. “I can think of many things.”

“Like what?”

Fiora glanced to a pair of footsteps to the left. A servant carrying folded sheets passing through the foyer. “I’m not sure I should tell you here.”

Riven cocked her head. “Then you will have to show me some time.”

Fiora blew a strand of hair tickling her lashes from her face. “Maybe,” she said, and Riven’s instinct flared just before Fiora knocked the edge of her blade aside and introduced her to a flurry of a riposte.

By the end, Riven was panting too, and Fiora could barely lift her arms to sheathe her weapon, she was so exhausted. Riven had managed to keep Fiora relatively unharmed, and as the months passed by, Riven found it harder and harder to swing at Fiora with true intent. It wasn’t the exciting thrill of battle deserting her, for she still found satisfaction in besting a worthy opponent.

It was simply that Riven didn’t want to hurt Fiora. She winced whenever the duelist winced, cringed in pain whenever she lashed a new mark across her pale flesh, and whenever she struck her in the face, Riven found herself apologizing to both of their surprise.

This hadn’t happened with any of her old masters, and Riven suspected her reluctance to harm was associated in some way with the skip of her heart at that mirthful laugh of Fiora’s. Suspected, but she still wasn’t certain why; she was new to this, and while she enjoyed exploring the uncharted lands, this was an entirely new kind of frontier, so she kept her mouth shut and only stared when Fiora wasn’t looking.

It was easier this way, she said to herself.

 

**ooooo**

 

The mist had lifted for once, chased away by the sun and it shone brilliantly in the sky. The wind roamed free across the fields, and she listened to it hiss through the grass and rattle through the leaves. The horizon was visible, dipping and rising like the rest of the land, ghosts of mountaintops hiding behind distant clouds. If Riven were a painter, this would be a wonderful opportunity to fill a canvas.

A knock at her door.

“Come in!” she called, resuming her measured breath.

The door opened, and footsteps entered then paused momentarily while the person realized that Riven wasn’t there. They discovered the balcony door open, and they made their way to her.

“Ah, there you are,” Ammdar said. The, puzzled, “Why are you on the table?”

“The railing blocks my line of sight when I sit on the floor,” she replied in an even tone. Granted, sitting cross-legged on a table scooted up to the railing wasn’t the most comfortable or conspicuous way to meditate, but it allowed her a greater sense of environmental awareness.

“I won’t ask,” he said, and he walked onto the balcony and leaned on the railing.

“Do you need something?” she asked. “Have the wolves returned?”

He chuckled. “No. In fact, I’m fairly certain you hunted them to near extinction around here. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Riven nodded. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“I came to tell you that I’ll be leaving soon,” he said.

“Oh?” she said, intrigued.

“Yes.” He glanced back through the door. “I don’t where I’ll go, but it will be anywhere but here.”

“And where is ‘here’, exactly?”

“The manor? Demacia?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I haven’t decided yet. Wherever I go, you may not see me again for a long time.”

“Why? I do not think I have ever seen you leave the manor, and now you wish to disappear completely?” she asked, frowning as she asked, “Has Fiora done something else?”

He laughed. “No. Quite the contrary, actually.”

He fiddled with the ring around his finger. It was a ruby rose with golden petals, the same ring on Monsieur De Laurent’s hand in the portrait in the study. To Riven’s limited knowledge, that ring belonged to the Head of the House, but Riven assumed that because Fiora always wore her dueling gloves, Ammdar had chosen to wear it instead.

“Fiora and I were close as children,” Ammdar said, staring at the ring. “When she developed her interest in the blade, she made me teach her how to wield it. When I refused, she… promised to teach me how to talk to girls.”

Riven horribly suppressed a smile.

He smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know. But I was desperate at the time, so I took the deal and I taught her everything I knew. It was a damn good deal, if I do say so myself; as it turns out, Fiora was highly knowledgeable on what women enjoy.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I suppose that was the first clue.”

“The first clue for what?” Riven asked when he didn’t elaborate.

He frowned. “You don’t know? Fiora is gay.”

Riven nodded. She knew very well that Fiora was homosexual.

“We didn’t know about this until after the fiasco with the marriage,” he looked to the sky thoughtfully, “but in hindsight, I think her stated reasons against marrying the man were bullshit. I’m sure there was some truth to them, but… well, how would you enjoy a forced relationship with a man?”

“I would not,” she said.

“Exactly.” He sighed. “Then Papa died. I was to inherit the deed to the manor, the family fortune, and the family responsibilities because I was the oldest living male. But instead, it was Fiora who took the title of Head of House Laurent.”

She examined him from the corner of her vision. “You do not seem troubled by this.”

“I never wanted it,” he said bluntly. “Too much responsibility on my shoulders. Do you know what being the Head of a House requires?”

Riven shook her head.

“First of all, the Head of the House is the ambassador. They decide who to ally with and how it will be done. Then, they are the vanguard of the family’s honor. When a house is challenged, it’s the Head that steps forward to accept it. We are world-famous duelists, and I was expected to be the best.” He shook his head. “I am good. Damn good, even, but I’m far from the best in Demacia, much less the world.”

“You said you taught Fiora everything you knew, and look at her now,” Riven commented. “Either you are very humble, or Fiora is truly a prodigy. More so than she already is.”

He nodded appreciatively. “And the family’s income is managed by the Head. I may be a great duelist, but I am no businessman, and considering how House Laurent controls the largest fleet of merchant vessels across the world… I am not qualified to run something so large and intricate. Fiora is a natural at it, but then again, Fiora is a natural at everything.”

He breathed in the fresh morning air. “No, I never wanted to be the Head of the family.”

“Then what did you want?” Riven asked.

His eyes adopted a childlike whimsy, gazing off into the far distance at something on the horizon. “When I was ten years old, Papa took me to the Freljord. It was on the topic of business, and he wanted me to see how he did things, but all I could focus on was how different it was than Demacia. I started to wonder what everywhere else looked like, and it was then that I knew,” he said, and he looked directly at her with that wonder and curiosity, “I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see how white the sandy beaches of Bilgewater were. I wanted to trek through the jungles of Kumungu and climb the mountains of Ionia.”

Riven nodded; she knew the feeling.

“However, as you can see,” Ammdar said, “I haven’t explored the world yet, but I have my chance now.”

He didn’t continue; he wanted her to ask. She chuckled. “And why is that?”

Ammdar pointed to her. “You.”

“Me?”

“You.” His gaze returned to the horizon. “I told you that her brothers left because they were angry about what she did to Papa. This is true, but there were other reasons they left, namely the issue of who became the new Head of the House. Tradition states that the eldest son assumes control, and Fiora is not only the youngest, she is also a woman. That was why Dorian left.”

“Why did your other brother leave?” Riven asked. “Dominique?”

“Because Fiora prefers women.”

Riven nodded with a frown.

“And that, in combination with everything else Fiora was- loud, rebellious, and unorthodox- was the ultimate reason why our family shunned us.” He was quiet for a moment, perhaps remembering the chaos and the deafening silence that always followed. “Cousins, second cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, our entire family tree; it didn’t fucking matter. Everyone Fiora cared about either died or disowned her.”

“But you stayed?”

“Aye,” he said. “I stayed. I couldn’t just abandon her like all the rest. I couldn’t leave her with nothing and no one, so, yes, I stayed. I had to relinquish everything, my friends, my dreams, even love, but it was all for a good cause, right? Just long enough to help Fiora stand on her own two feet again, that’s what I told myself.”

“She tried to drown herself in wine last month,” Riven said.

He chuckled sardonically. “Fiora wasn’t getting better. As the years passed, her obsession with restoring our family’s name began to do things to her.” He huffed. “You saw what it did to her. How she shut everyone out and made friends only with the bottle.”

A bird fluttered by, a blue jay with feathers like the ocean. It darted past, and they both followed its path until it disappeared over the roof.

“I was trapped. I couldn’t just up and leave, though I tried.” He looked to her. “Have you ever tried to leave someone you love behind? When they need help?”

The field of flowers and the crystal blade embedded from the earth came to mind, but he was gone. And he wanted her where she was anyway. “No, I cannot say I have.”

He put a hand over his heart like he was trying to reach in and pull it out. “It eats at you, and it never gives up. You know this person trusts you with their life, and yet you’re running from them. I’ve never made it past Crookback Gulley.”

“What changed?” she asked. “You said you are leaving, and I doubt another venture down to Crookback Gulley and back is your version of travelling the world.”

“One week ago, I traveled to the city for three days.”

“…And?”

“And when I walked back through the front door, Fiora was there. Do you know what she said to me? She said… She said…” but he couldn’t finish his sentence because he was laughing and trying not to.

“She said...?”

He looked to her with a twinkle in his eye. It was the happiest twinkle she’d seen from him. “‘Hello.’ She said, ‘Hello.’ She panics if I’m out of the house for more than a day.” He held up three fingers, and it was the most incredible thing in the world for him. “I was gone for _three_ and she doesn’t scream at me when I walk through the door, she doesn’t raise a fuss; she honest-to-God smiles at me and says, ‘Hello.’”

They watched the horizon until a group of gardeners carrying their trowels and their tools in buckets ambled across the lawn toward patch of flowers circling a covered patio. Riven inhaled the sweet scent of the roses; she thought she would tire of them seeing as they were everywhere, but they only smelled sweeter as the days went by.

“It’s because of you,” Ammdar said. He stared at the horizon, his earthy eyes already choosing a destination. “I don’t know what you did- I think I know what you’ve done- but Fiora is a person again. She no longer needs me.”

He was smiling with relief, a burden lifted from his shoulders, and his eyes were shimmering.

“I’m free,” he whispered shakily.

They stayed there for a time, watching the birds flit through the clear sky, listening to the gardeners’ conversations. A clear day like this was rare, and they were determined to enjoy all of it.

Riven passed on some of her worldly knowledge to Ammdar; she wanted him to discover most of it by himself, but there were several things that Riven wished she’d been aware of beforehand. Like how the Serpentine River flooded in the springtime, making most travel through the Kaladoun impossible. Or how he should be wary of the Blue Flames Islands because of pirates, and how he should avoid Ionia entirely. Or how the land south of the Great Barrier was mostly lawless and untamed. Or even things as simple as the curse words and rude gestures of foreign cultures.

Ammdar was a bright man with a skilled blade. He’d do just fine.

 

**ooooo**

 

“Good luck, Ammdar,” Fiora said through a tight throat and a trembling lip. The gravel below was speckled with tears, and she buried her face into the crook of Ammdar’s neck.

“Thank you. I might need some of that, one day,” he murmured. He lifted his head and so did Fiora, both pairs of eyes sad and scared, but thrilled. “I will see you again,” he promised.

Fiora just hugged him, squeezed him tightly to her.

When she released him, she playfully pushed him away. “Now go.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Before I regret letting you go.”

Ammdar smiled broadly as he mounted his horse. There was only a small ration of food and a few pairs of clothes in the saddlebags and his rapier and a pouch of coins on his hips. It wasn’t much, but Ammdar would manage. “Oh, please! I could’ve left whenever I wanted.”

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” Fiora retorted, but there was no bite to her words.

Ammdar looked across the lawn, took in every detail of the manor and the rolling hills and the green forests so he would never forget any of it. The sweeping sky sang with sparkling blues, and the birds roosted atop the chimneys. It would be a good final memory of the Laurent mansion.

He looked down at Fiora and Riven and all the other servants whom he’d befriended, and they knew from the look in his eyes that it was time.

“Goodbye, Fiora,” he said, and she smiled despite the tears.

“Goodbye, Ammdar,” she said. “I love you.”

He took her hand. “I love you, too.” Then, to Riven, “Goodbye. You’re an excellent woman; I hope to see you again someday.”

“Agreed,” Riven responded.

And then Ammdar was away, trotting down the gravel path. Away from his life of coddled, boring luxury and toward a new one fraught with exciting danger. Away from his shackled prison, and on to freedom.

Ammdar halted at the gate, just a speck among a field of green. He waved.

Fiora waved back, and she didn’t stop until he was through the gates and galloping down the road. Riven sent a prayer his way, and a comforting breeze swished her hair. With the wind at his back, he could go anywhere he desired.

Ammdar disappeared into the forest, and after a lingering spell, everyone else disappeared into the house. Ammdar was finally free.

 

**ooooo**

 

Fiora hadn’t met her in the foyer for the day’s lesson, and Fiora was always punctual. Her absence prompted a curious search, and Riven decided to look in Fiora’s room first.

Riven found her sitting on the floor, slouched against her massive bed complete with drapes suspended from a canopy. The room was spacious, almost as much as the study, with a fireplace and lavishly crafted furniture strewn elegantly against the walls. A bureau lurked in the corner, the dark wood cast in the shadows of the lamp on the nightstand, and mounted on the brick chimney above the fireplace was the family crest forged from beautiful bluesteel, Fiora’s rapier crossed with another rapier sheathed behind the polished rose.

The room was neat and tidy, documents tucked away and books stowed on high, dustless shelves, which couldn’t be said for poor Fiora. Distraught with regret, she was dressed in a loose, white shirt and sweatpants, completely clean of makeup, her hair and her disposition a wild mess.

And she was clutching a bottle.

Riven frowned at the entrance. “I thought you were giving up drink.”

“This?” Fiora asked weakly, holding the bottle up. “It’s apple cider. Non-alcoholic. But it burns the throat, and that’s what I need.”

Riven took a chance and entered the room. She’d never been inside, and it was pleasantly warm compared to the misty morning outside. A small fire burned in the fireplace.

Fiora didn’t object, swirling the contents of her bottle. It sounded half full.

“You’re late for the lesson.”

Fiora blew air from her mouth. “I don’t give a damn about the lesson.”

Riven’s brow quirked. “You seemed plenty enthusiastic about the other lessons.”

Fiora looked away.

Riven walked and sat down beside her, resting her back against the wooden frame of the bed. “Something troubles you.”

She was quiet for a long time, but Riven had patience. “It’s Ammdar.”

“Do you miss him?”

“No,” she said, but she frowned. “Uh, yes, but that’s not what I worry about.”

“Then what do you worry about?”

Fiora’s head leaned back against the mattress of her bed, staring at the ceiling. “I kept him here for so long. He should’ve left me when-.”

_When the others left_ , she was going to say, but she didn’t. Riven nodded. “It was certainly time for him to live his own life.

Fiora groaned. “I know. I’ve known for a while, but I… I didn’t want him to go.” She took a swig of cider. “It was killing him inside. I watched him die slowly, day by day, and I still wanted him to stay.”

“But he is free, now. Better late than never,” Riven said.

“Yes, but… I should’ve done it sooner.” She put the bottle to her lips and winced in satisfaction when the carbonation burned her throat. “It’s just, he was the last family I had. Now, I’m alone.”

“The servants are here,” Riven said. “I am here.”

Fiora rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t at Riven; it was because of Riven, but it wasn’t directed toward her. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how long that lasts,” she muttered under her breath.

Riven was quiet for a spell while Fiora enjoyed her cider.

“So,” Fiora said with a sigh, “when will _you_ leave?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” she said, stealing another swig. “You’re an adventurer, just like Ammdar. Aren’t you eventually going to move on to bigger and better things than sword lessons with a Demacian duelist?”

Riven hadn’t felt that urge to move out that usually set in whenever she was in one place for too long. It was odd; a few months was typically her maximum, and still she felt content to stay in the manor and while away her days.

Riven shrugged. “I do not know. I like it here; maybe I will stay.”

Fiora took that in with narrowed eyes. She appeared conflicted, like she wanted to believe her but she didn’t.

Then there was something Riven rarely ever saw in Fiora’s icy blue eyes: hesitation. Scared hesitation, but she tried to conceal it.

“Will you...? Could you...?” she said, stuttering at the last moment. She looked away to spare herself the shame.

“Could I what?” Riven asked. “Please speak your mind; I wish to hear what you have to say.”

Fiora looked back at Riven, chewing her lip anxiously. “Could you…?” She squeezed her eyes shut and forced it out, “Could you please stay?” She inspected the damage on Riven’s face, slowly continuing, “It gets lonely here. True, the servants are here with me, but they avoid me.”

“And... I like you,” Fiora said. “You’re a decent person, and I enjoy listening to your views on current events.”

Riven thought for a moment, but the decision was surprisingly easy. “I suppose I can try. I will not promise anything, but I do not feel the immediate need to hit the road. Yes, I will stay.”

But while Fiora did seem somewhat relieved, there was still tension in her shoulders, and Riven suspected that Fiora was dancing around something.

“Fiora? Is there something else you wish to tell me?” Riven asked.

Fiora didn’t answer right away. Instead, she alternated between staring at Riven and staring into her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching the plush rug beneath them. Finally, after an intense session of rumination, Fiora sighed and rested her head against the bed.

“I need to tell you something. You’ve been here long enough that I suppose you deserve the full story-.”

“Is it about your father?” Riven asked.

Fiora stared at her. “…Yes.”

Riven nodded. “Then I already know.”

“What?”

“Ammdar told me everything about a month back. I know all about what happened between you and your father,” Riven said respectfully.

Fiora eyed Riven warily, like she was lying and that Riven would hop up on her soapbox and preach to her the evils of what she’d done. “And you...? You don’t...?” Fiora gulped. “You don’t hate me?”

Riven smiled a sad smile, gaze focused gently on Fiora’s eyes. “I’ve killed many people, Fiora. Mothers, fathers, even children. I killed them for cause I thought was true and just. I killed them because I thought it was a necessary evil.” Riven softly carded her fingers through her hair. “I was wrong. It was just evil. There was nothing necessary about it. So, suffice to say, I am the last person on Runeterra that can judge you for your actions.”

In that moment, where they sat side-by-side and gazed into each other’s eyes and opened their souls, something changed in the way Fiora looked at her. Riven didn’t what it was, something changed.

It was different. Different in a way that raised goosebumps on Riven’s flesh. Different in a way that excited Riven for unknown reasons.

“You look prettier without your makeup,” Riven said softly, and Fiora blushed madly.

And when Fiora’s blush inspired a red heat to arise in Riven’s own cheeks, when the sight of Fiora’s pale, flawless flesh kindled a fire in her core. When her slender curves invited Riven’s hands to roam, and when her rosy perfume induced heavy lightheadedness. When her parted, supple lips watered Riven’s mouth, and when her icy, blue eyes stole all the breath from her lungs because they were so incomparably gorgeous.

When Riven stared into Fiora’s eyes and realized that she accepted Riven for who she was and all she’d done, Riven knew she was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how's this chapter? I hope to see you next time!


	25. The Rose's Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to upload chapters nearly as quickly as I have been for the past months. In other words, instead of two chapters per week, it will likely be the other way around. Maybe longer, I don't know; what I do know is that I will continue this story.  
> Regardless of when the next chapter will release, please enjoy this one!

**10 Months Ago**

 

Riven couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her curvy form, her effortless grace, her kind, quiet nature; Fiora refused to expunge herself from Riven’s conscience, and Riven must’ve been mad because she didn’t mind it at all. Even in dreams, she couldn’t escape her, pushed against the wall with that flawless body pressed flush against her while those lips sucked the skin of her collarbone, those perfect, white teeth nipping in just the right way…

Fiora lunged, and Riven’s stupor almost earned her a length of bluesteel between her ribs. She parried, and when Fiora coiled to strike again, Riven found an opening.

But she chose not to exploit the opportunity not because her instinct flared, but because watching Fiora move was the most mesmerizing thing in the world. The swish of her hair across the expanse of her forehead shining with sweat, the flex of her _delicious_ thighs beneath the tight, black material of her leggings, the sensual finesse with which her whole body moved like an undulating wave of water as it dipped and lunged and dodged.

Riven shivered. She was content to simply watch.

Fiora never relented, and Riven expected no less. The threat of a cold death followed her throughout the room, lancing toward her throat and swiping across her throat. She dodged the thrusts and parried the swipes with a succession of clangs that echoed down the halls, and Riven struggled to keep her face as neutral and free of hunger as she could. But Fiora was like a dancer, her whole body in sync, and Riven couldn’t just ignore the movement of her hips or the way her abdomen stretched and twisted beneath her form-fitting dueling shirt.

When Fiora finally paused, their blades bound between them, they were both breathless but for different reasons. Then Fiora’s eyes flickered downward toward Riven’s exposed thighs and hope sparked in her chest when she realized that maybe it wasn’t so different.

“Why are you holding back?” Fiora asked, sweaty brow furrowed as she panted.

“What?” Riven asked, too focused on how icy blue her eyes were to hear the question.

“You’re holding back. Why?”

Because she was captivated by her beauty. Because she was baffled as to why anyone would abandon someone so wonderfully witty and charming to be around.

“My leg is cramping,” she lied.

Fiora’s eye immediately flooded with concern. “Are you alright? Do we need to stop? I can get you medical-.”

“I slept on it wrong,” Riven insisted. “I am alright. I just need to stretch out the kinks, and I will be fine.”

Fiora didn’t believe her, but they slipped into combat nonetheless, Fiora resuming the offensive while Riven veiled her ogling gaze as a calculating stare.

It wasn’t just the body that Riven loved; it was the spirit, the fire in her eyes, the bounce in her step. Fiora never gave up, not in combat, not in life. Even when the odds were stacked against her, even when her world was falling to pieces around her, she stepped up to the challenge and fought with tooth and nail and didn’t stop until the competition was in pieces at her feet.

She may have been prone to a poor taste in friends and, consequently, an excellent taste in wine, but she persevered. She sacrificed the soft pieces of herself to make herself harder, and Riven respected the effort and recognized the pain and the tears shed to get to that point.

The point where nothing could touch her.

She was brave in ways Riven could never be, intelligent enough to manage a worldwide network of trade without so much as a complaint, and, above all else, she was accepting of Riven’s flaws and deeds.

Riven had to tell her. She’d devised situations where the truth would flow easy and clean, but they all felt fake. It had to be real, and Fiora had to believe it.

They paused again, hilts locked and chests heaving.

“Are you okay?” Fiora asked.

“I…” Riven’s heart hammered. This was her chance. Here, when they were so close to each other, when the blood roaring in her ears blocked her inward cries of fear.

“What?” Fiora sked, leaning in. “You what? What’s the matter?”

“You…”

Riven kissed her.

She pushed their blades aside, releasing her own to fall to the floor so she could pull her in by the neck and the lower back and she kissed her. Pressed her lips to Fiora’s, and she held her loosely because she didn’t want to scare her.

For a moment, Fiora didn’t react. Riven froze in fear, her heart turning stone cold with the ache of rejection.

And then a blade clattered to the floor and Fiora was kissing her back, hard. Hands wrapped around the back of Riven’s neck, threading through her hair, pulling her closer and she pushed up against Riven and for the sweetest, flutteriest moment of Riven’s life, Fiora’s tongue was in her mouth.

Then Fiora froze up and backed away, and Riven opened her eyes.

Fiora looked shell-shocked; eyes wide, hands clamped over her mouth, and frozen like a corpse in the tundra. She was pale like one too, paler than normal. She didn’t say anything, she just stared.

Riven was flustered; one moment, she was tasting the tongue of a veritable Goddess and the next, she was gasping from withdrawal with a wet heat left ignored down below.

“I… I… What?” Riven said, confused.

Fiora didn’t answer. Hands clamped over her mouth, eyes wide as saucers, she stared at Riven and said nothing.

“I… I need to go…” Riven said, suddenly overwhelmed and yearning for a way out. She turned to leave, but she hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. “Is that- is that what you want?”

No answer. Just a shocked stare while she covered her mouth with her hands and sod still as a statue.

Turning away was an incredibly arduous feat, but once started, it was too easy to rush away up the stairs. Gone like a passing breeze.

 

**ooooo**

 

Fiora wasn’t present for supper, and Riven could barely eat because of her absence. Fiora was avoiding her, and it hurt Riven like nothing else. Not a harsh, sudden pain, but more like Ammdar described: it was eating away at her, nibbling at her sanity until she couldn’t think straight unless she was thinking about Fiora.

Riven took what courage she could take from a single glass of wine, and her feet were swift in guiding her to her room where she shut the door and sat on the foot of the bed. It was a magnificent bed, a generously large bed made for two. In fact, the suite itself seemed intended for two people, with two towels hanging from the towel rack, two chairs beneath the table on the balcony, and two flutes for the bottle of iced champagne perched on the nightstand.

Her nerves were fraying by the minute, and she couldn’t stop carding her fingers through her hair.

A shower would soothe her mind.

The monotonous drum of the shower pattering to the tiled floor relieved her of some stress and allowed her to properly plan. It was unlikely she’d see Fiora until the next morning, and maybe not until the morning after that, but Riven preferred to be prepared for any circumstances. She trimmed her pubic hair and shaved her legs and armpits, and when she’d grown numb of the hot water, she dried herself off, used a smart trick with the wind to blow her hair dry, and then she returned to the bed.

The grandfather clock ticked and tocked in its corner, and Riven watched the intricate hand of the minute lap the sluggish hand of the hour. Meditation was no use; she was too preoccupied with other things.

Eventually, when the hour read nine, Riven renounced hope for the night. There was no use fretting herself silly when she was tired, so she crawled beneath the covers and closed her eyes.

Sleep didn’t come, because all she could think of was what she tasted like, how she felt in her hands, what spell did she cast to turn Riven into such a mess. Riven found answers for none of these laying under the comforter, so she shook her head at her own foolishness and breathed.

_In through the-._

A knock at the door.

Three soft raps.

Riven glanced to the clock: half past nine. She was only in a shirt and panties, but she groggily stood and walked to the door. She cracked it open and peered through.

“Fiora?”

She opened the door the rest of the way and stared.

There she was, standing in the hallway. Nibbling her nails and wearing nothing but a silk robe. Her arms were crossed over her belly, and she was the epitome of a nervous wreck.

Neither moved a muscle.

Fiora stepped forward, the tension in her posture increasing as the distance lessened. She placed a hand on Riven’s chest, raised on her tiptoes, and kissed her. It was light and chaste, and it only lasted for a moment, before she stepped away to inspect the damage.

Riven tried to breathe, but her world was flipped on its head. What she knew was a lie, and what she thought was a lie was the truth. In that moment, the world was simple; there was Fiora, and then there was Riven, and there was nothing else, nothing in between. Nothing to stop them.

Riven moved, and when Fiora rushed to meet her in the middle, her world was even smaller.

Now, it was just Fiora.

Fiora threw her arms around her neck, Riven wrapping hers around her waist and upper back, and when their lips merged, all uncertainties melted away. In that moment, all which existed in their world was the other, all that mattered was bringing each other close, because they’d lost so much and they refused to give up this last sliver of hope.

She was incredible. Riven had only held Fiora in her arms for a collective ten seconds, and yet she knew she was inconceivably incredible.

Her lips were so full and plump and eager against her own, so willing to have Riven taste her, and taste her she did. Savored her divine lips, relished their soft warmth and their indescribable passion, and she needed more. Riven swiped her tongue against the crease of her lips, and when Fiora accepted the request, Riven hummed with delight as she slipped through. A whimper from both of them when their tongues first convened, and then it was like they were in the Hall of Blades, so synchronized in their strokes and Fiora’s hot mouth was the foyer through which they waltzed and clashed.

Riven’s hands roamed up and down her back, and then they became curious and slipped beneath the robe. A satisfied hum from Riven; nothing but lacy, scarlet panties and a matching brassier.

Fiora was so sensitive, it was captivating how far lost she was in Riven’s touch. A little hitch of breath when Riven’s calloused hand first laid upon her flesh that was softer than the silk robe, warmer than a meadow on a spring day. When Riven’s hand swept up her bare back and unclasped the brassier, Fiora’s arms wrapped tighter around her neck. When Riven pulled Fiora’s leg up to her waist with one hand, ghosting her thumb up her succulent inner thigh, Fiora shuddered, pressed her whole body closer and deepened the kiss.

And when Riven’s fingers trailed over the ample flesh of her tender ass, Fiora gasped so profoundly, their lips parted, and they used the moment to breathe.

Just breathing. Forehead to forehead, bodies growing flusher still, they gazed into each other’s eyes and breathed.

Fiora’s eyes like sparkling, complex sapphires commanded all of Riven’s attention, all of Riven’s thoughts, all of Riven’s heart, and it just came out. She didn’t want it to, but a part of her needed Fiora to know.

“I love you…”

Fiora didn’t pull away or stutter, didn’t call it all off and give her the cold shoulder. Instead, a wide, gleeful smile took hold of her mouth and her eyes. She tried to conceal it, but it peeked out anyways.

“I love you, Riven,” Fiora whispered in that delectable accent, rolling the “r”, accentuating the “l”. Riven melted again.

They kissed, but the desperate element of their embrace disappeared. Their feelings were mutual; something about that was calming.

Riven released Fiora’s thigh and, still embraced, walked them backwards to the bed until the rear of her knees collided with the bed and she sat. Fiora remained standing before her, and if ice could fill with warmth, that was what Fiora’s blue eyes did to Riven’s chest.

Slowly, the shoulders of the silk robe slipped down Fiora’s arms, and when she was certain Riven’s gaze was locked onto her, she let it fall from her body and pool on the floor. Riven was in awe; such beauty couldn’t possibly exist in the mortal world, and yet it did. She reached out and pressed her palm to her belly, splaying her fingers to feel as much of her soft flesh as she could.

Fiora took Riven’s hand in both of hers, and she shrugged off the scarlet brassier clinging to her chest. They were as perfect as the rest of her, and Fiora brought Riven’s palm up, up until her fingers closed around her soft breast.

Fiora’s breath labored when Riven squeezed, closed her eyes and tilted her head back as Riven thumbed a stiff nipple. Her mouth watered.

Riven brought her other hand up to her waist, gradually sliding her fondling hand until she cradled Fiora’s hips. She pulled inward gently, and Fiora clambered onto her lap to straddle her. Before Riven could pull her flush and explore her body once more, Fiora grabbed the waist of Riven’s shirt and tugged.

The mild surprise on her face amused her; Riven didn’t sleep with a bra, and now all they wore were panties.

Fiora wanted to ogle Riven’s bare chest some more, but Riven was impatient; she reeled her in, and when their naked bodies reunited, when their bare flesh pressed flush again, Riven couldn’t breathe. It was electric, and warm, and a million other astonishing things, and it just felt _right_. She couldn’t breathe.

When she looked up, Fiora was the same. Gasping for breath, floored by the contact, and they both pulled each other closer.

“What is this,” Fiora whispered, but all Riven noticed was her warm breath puffing against her face, her delicious lips waggling when they should’ve been pressed to Riven’s. Riven kissed her.

_Love_ , she seemed to say without words.

_Love_ , Fiora agreed.

Fiora’s body moved of its own volition, endlessly surging into her, and Riven followed with her wandering hands.

“How long…” Fiora said between kisses, eyes closed, grinding slow, sweet friction between their bodies, “How long have you…”

“I do not know,” Riven replied, equally as breathless. “I do not question these things...” Then, after a moment, “You?”

“Months,” Fiora confessed. “I watched you from the windows… When you helped with the garden or… with the hunt…”

“You mean-,” Riven cut off when Fiora raked her trimmed nails down her spine in the most pleasantly painful way. “You mean, we could have been… doing this for months?”

“I wouldn’t have…” Fiora’s inhaled sharply when Riven’s fingers wandered to her butt. “I wouldn’t have loved you with so much… so much passion if we’d done this… anytime sooner…”

Riven’s fingers strayed farther south, lightly traveling through the crease of Fiora’s cheeks, and when they grazed the damp spot there, Riven groaned into Fiora’s mouth; she was so fucking wet, and all Riven could think about was how she would taste. Perfect, like the rest of her, if she had to guess.

She hoped she wouldn’t have to guess.

“What about you?” Fiora asked.

Riven pressed two fingers to the damp spot, and Fiora whined a moan. Riven swallowed it, swirling her fingers and listening to the soft sounds of her slick pussy. Fiora bucked lightly against her hand, thighs tightening around Riven’s waist, and she shoved her face into the crook of Riven’s neck.

“What were we talking about…?” Riven whispered into her ear.

Fiora groaned, arms squeezing around her neck. “I don’t know,” she said.

“I need you,” Riven said.

Fiora breathed a haggard breath. “I’ve never…”

The expanse of Fiora’s neck beckoned to her, and Riven descended upon it like a starving vampire. “Ever?” Riven asked, voice muffled.

“With men…” Fiora threw her head back, rolling her neck while Riven feasted upon it. “But never women…”

Riven surrendered her lover’s neck, waiting for Fiora to look down so she could face her eye-to-eye. “I do not care,” she said, and she kissed her once. “I will guide you. But first…”

Riven held her tightly, shifting around and crawling to the head of the bed where she deposited Fiora.

“But first,” she said, looming over her, noses brushing, “ _you_.”

She kissed her once, a deep kiss with tongue and love in equal measures and a soulful gaze to finish it off. Then she sat up, kneeling between Fiora’s spread legs, because she wanted to look at her lover spread out and displayed beneath her before she satiated her thirst.

She was perfection.

No, scratch that; she was perfection perfected. She was beautiful already, but when the dim light cast shadows upon her figure, she was something from a wet dream.

Riven’s hungry gaze took in her face, her sleek jawline and her defined cheekbones. Her scrunched, parted lips, swollen from so much kissing already, and her locks of shimmering, raven hair splayed onto the pillow. Her ice blue eyes exciting Riven in ways she never knew existed.

Then Riven stared at those elegant fingers laying above her head, those dexterous, elegant fingers that could do so much more than just twirl a sword. She would need practice, and Fiora shivered with her when Riven’s eyes traveled back to hers.

Then down her slender neck, and Riven licked her lips when the column of her throat gulped. Across her exquisitely sharp collarbone, her flushed chest. Down to her bountiful, milky breasts heaving with breath, topped with stiff pink and as juicy as a pair of breasts could be.

Down her stomach, and there was something sensual about her belly. About how fit it was, shadowy traces of each abdomen beneath flawless flesh. About how narrow her waist was in comparison to her hips.

Her wide hips. Riven loved a woman with wide hips, and now she loved a woman with wide hips and it was everything she dreamed it would be. She trailed a finger across the edges of the hipbones, and Fiora shivered.

Down, and she motioned and Fiora raised her legs that stretched all the way to ceiling. Or it seemed like it as Riven pinched the waistband of her panties and slid them up and over her feet, tossing them behind her. Then she came back down, palms gradually descending her calves, her knees, her thick, creamy thighs, and then, when Fiora spread her legs for her and lowered them to either side, Riven looked down.

A meal fit for a queen. Her red petals glistened, strands of slick stretching across, her inner thigh glistening because she was dripping wet. And garnished with the clitoris that peeped from its shell.

Her eyes razed up Fiora’s body, and when her gaze met Fiora’s, she crawled over her until she lay directly below.

“We can stop at any time,” Riven said. “I truly love you. I do not want to force you into something you do not want.”

“I want you,” Fiora said, hands reaching up and cupping her cheeks. “I need you.”

Riven didn’t say anything; she lay herself on top, and when her bodyweight crushed Fiora, she gasped into the kiss. But she held her where she was, so Riven didn’t move.

Riven tasted Fiora’s tongue again, gently grinding her hips downward with every little gasp that escaped their sealed lips. Fiora was going mad, digging her fingers into Riven’s back and tearing up her already blemished skin. She needed it bad.

She crawled downward, and Fiora watched her from the corner of her eye.

A few kisses to her neck to sample her salty skin, but just a few because Fiora was eager for the real deal. Riven decided her throat was so scrumptious, she would come back for seconds.

A trail of nips along her collarbone, and when she made a mark, she circled her lips around it and swiped her tongue across the hickey. It only made them worse, and Riven smiled at her work.

She kissed the hollow of her throat, the start of her sternum, and then she was at her breasts. Her appetizing, pale breasts, and she spent time her. She took a nipple into her mouth, and heard Fiora’s breath stutter. It stopped completely when she flicked the bud with her tongue, pinching the other. She played with them, interchanging which nipple she graced with the hot wetness of her mouth, sucking and licking and finding out what worked and Fiora struggled to breathe because all of it worked.

“Riven…” she moaned, spine arching. “Riven…” and that was how Riven wanted her name spoken. Spilled from Fiora’s gasping lips, accented by lust.

Her lips danced down her belly, and Riven wanted to spend more time here, rimming her bellybutton with her tongue and painting each, individual abdomen with a thorough coat of saliva, but she was so close to where Fiora wanted her most, so she didn’t dally.

Her mound was cleanly shaven, and Riven kissed it once.

And then she settled between Fiora’s creamy, glistening thighs, positioned them over her shoulders, and took in everything.

The distinct smell of her pussy, how slick was smeared on her thighs, dribbling down her perineum. Her engorged clitoris, and her folds a damp mess.

Riven breathed a hot breath over it, and the response was a full-body shudder.

Riven cast one last look up through her thighs. Staring hungrily through her disheveled bangs, and Fiora stared right back. Riven chewed the flesh of her thigh seductively, a question in her eyes.

Fiora didn’t need to say anything or even move; Riven saw her permission gleaming in her eyes.

She spread Fiora’s lips, licked her own, and descended.

It was a soaking, molten heat, and while Fiora scrabbled for a hold on the covers, Riven hummed; a little sweet and a little salty. This woman was perfect.

They were slow, rhythmic strokes around her labia and skirting around her clitoris. As far as Riven could tell, this was Fiora’s first experience with oral, and she wanted it to last. She ghosted her hands up and down the outside of her thighs, occasionally traveling a bit higher and petting her belly affectionately.

Fiora oozed into her mouth with every movement of her tongue, mumbling Higher Demacian in a high-pitched tone.

Then Riven began working at her with more powerful strokes, more direct swipes, and Fiora was actually having difficulties breathing. Her mouth still in motion, Riven tapped Fiora’s belly. Shoulders heaving, she looked down through eyes that wanted to close.

Riven reached up and gently took her wrists, guiding them downward until Fiora understood the message. A moment later, and Fiora’s fingers anchored into Riven’s ashen locks. With an outlet to pull and tug, Fiora breathed easier.

Riven worked to the tune of little gasps and whimpers, closing her eyes while she focused on the firm navigations of her tongue through Fiora’s folds. She swirled and swiped and slurped up her sticky, salty sweetness, sucking when she knew Fiora could handle it, because Fiora loved it when Riven sucked her clit.

When Riven thrust her tongue into her tight heat for the first time, Fiora bucked. Riven held on to her thighs, sneaking a peek at Fiora’s blissful face, lips parted in an “O”, and she thrust again.

“Oui!” she cried. “Mon _dieu_ , oui! Oui, oui, _oui!_ ”

Fiora’s stamina impressed Riven; she’d never felt a mouth on her pussy and she was also extraordinarily horny, and she’d lasted much longer than Riven had Riven expected. But she had to cum sooner or later, and cum she did.

A squeal, and the fingers in her hair tugged harder than they already were. Her spine arched, and her creamy thighs locked around her head. Riven, content to drown in this delightfully warm and gooey pussy, calmly tongue-fucked her through the spasms and the moans. Fiora shouted in Higher Demacian, grinding against Riven’s mouth, and though Riven knew no Higher Demacian, she could listen to her talk in that passionate, whiney tone until the collapse of the universe. Preferably with her mouth around Fiora’s clit.

Fiora was a sweaty, limp body by the end.

Riven’s face was plastered with her juices, and, when she was sure Fiora was watching from her peripheral, she wiped the slick onto her hand licked it off with a sultry smile. Then she ascended her body and rested herself over Fiora’s exhausted form.

Fiora tried to speak, but Riven gently pressed kisses to her neck. Riven smiled in satisfaction when Fiora rolled her head to the side, exposing more sweaty, salty, milky flesh for Riven to feast on.

“That was…” Fiora mumbled, trailing off.

“You were wonderful, angel.”

Angel.

Fiora certainly looked like one, talked lone, smelled like one. And Riven had never made love to an angel, but she imagined that this was what angels tasted like.

So, yes. Fiora was an angel.

“… fucking amazing,” Fiora finished.

But Riven was too busy attempting to spell her name with hickeys into Fiora’s neck. It wasn’t working, but when she sucked her supple flesh, Fiora skipped a breath.

“Riven?” Fiora asked softly.

“Hmm?” Riven said into her neck, nipping at her skin. Her lover trailed her finger across her back, and at first, Riven thought she would ask something about the scars there.

“I believe it’s your turn.”

Riven smiled, sucking until another mark appeared. Claiming Fiora as her own, Riven realized. “You are too tired to even open your eyes.”

“Please,” Fiora said, and she begged so earnestly that Riven raised her head and looked into her eyes. She was totally exhausted, but Riven remembered that she never gave up.

She smiled, claimed her lips in a deep kiss, and rolled them over so Fiora was on top.

“I trust you,” Riven said, resting her hands above her head. “I will help you if you need it.”

Fiora smiled.

Sweaty and hunched over and clearly exhausted, Fiora smiled a big, happy smile, and Riven swore she glimpsed wings.

Fiora started with her lips, and Riven let Fiora’s tongue lead the waltz. She was careful and exploratory, and what she lacked in skill, she made up for in how passionately she made love. Riven hummed, pleased with how Fiora moved about her mouth, and when she withdrew, Riven was breathless.

Then her neck and her collarbone, and Fiora nipped and teased just like Riven had, though she wasn’t quite as confident.

“You are wonderful, Fiora,” Riven said, angling her head so Fiora could plant more kisses. “Absolutely wonderful.”

Fiora’s confidence skyrocketed, and when she took Riven’s breasts into her hand, she didn’t ask a single question before she wrapped her plump lips around her nipple and sucked.

“Mmmmm, baby,” Riven moaned because Fiora’s sultry mouth was divinely moist around her tits. “Just like that… Just like that…”

To Riven’s delight, Fiora found her weakness: her bellybutton, and not a moment after Riven whimpered did Fiora discover this. It tickled slightly, but it was so sensual and intimate and Riven had to bring her hands down and thread her fingers through Fiora’s silky hair because it felt so _good_.

Then Fiora’s hot breath traveled further south, and when she kissed her trimmed mound just like Riven had, Riven raised her head and looked down. Fiora looked her straight in the eyes as she delivered the first, long lick up Riven’s entire slit.

And then Fiora’s whole mouth was on her, and her pussy was in a hot, wet heaven.

“Oh, Fiora… Yes, baby… Yes,” she whispered as Fiora began the strokes.

They were sloppy and they were disorganized, and occasionally, Riven winced from oversensitivity, but Fiora’s tongue was so strong and smoothly rough and it licked up her soaked pussy and Riven was so horny that she almost didn’t notice. All she knew was the pressure building in her thighs, the tension winding as Fiora’s tongue stroked her, and the hot, wet muscle thrusting shallowly inside her.

“Oh fuck… Fiora… cumming…” she stammered, and she threw her head back as she convulsed in pleasure. Bliss crashed over her in waves, a warmth spreading through her groin and up through her chest, and Fiora’s mouth stayed locked around her pussy.

Riven sighed as she descended from her high, and when Fiora crawled over her, they smiled broadly.

“I love you.” The words spilled from Riven’s mouth without thought, but this time, Riven was happy for it.

Fiora lay on top of her, and their warmth bled together into one, sweaty, smelly, wonderful mess. “I love you,” she whispered.

They cuddled in silence, and Riven explored Fiora’s perfect body with her hands. The smoothness of her back, the bumps of her spine and the edges of her shoulder blades, and the swell of her rump. Riven didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this; she wasn’t exactly a fairytale hero, but if life decided to gift her with a beautiful princess, Riven would love her until the dragon came.

And when the dragon came, Riven wouldn’t hesitate to slay it.

“Fiora?” Riven asked quietly.

“Hmm?” was the response, and she lifted her head from Riven’s chest. Her messy, raven locks dangled in front of her eyes, and when Riven brushed them out of the way, a euphoric rush invaded her heart and her head. This woman, this gorgeous, sexy woman with Riven’s slick coating her mouth was hers.

Truth be told, Riven yearned to roll them over and make love to her until they passed out, Fiora looked ready to pass out anyways.

So Riven rolled them onto their side, and before Fiora turned around so they could spoon, she kissed Riven lovingly. Cupped Riven’s cheek and filled her mouth with saliva, slick, and love, and Riven received all of it with a hum. Then Fiora shifted around, and Riven pulled her in and wrapped her arms around her waist tightly. It was the ultimate torture to have that perfect ass fitting so snugly against Riven’s hips, but Riven bit her cheek and let the feeling pass.

In that moment, when Fiora’s hair was all Riven could smell, when their legs were tangled and sweaty, and when Fiora’s heartbeat was all Riven could hear; in that moment where all Riven could feel was Fiora’s body against hers, Riven was truly at peace.

Riven fell into a deep, dreamless sleep to the lovely beat of Fiora’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? RivenxFiora doesn't seem to be very common, but I wanted to experiment. Does their relationship seem real? Does the progression from enemies to lovers feel organic, or is it forced?  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	26. Angels Bless the Cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so chapters will take a lot longer to make than they used to. I'm sorry about that; busy life and all. Thanks for coming back, though, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**10 Months Ago**

 

Fiora awoke from a dreamless slumber smiling, but she didn’t know why.

She glanced through squinted eyelids at the morning light petering through the glass door, but that wasn’t right. There wasn’t a balcony in her room, and the furniture wasn’t arranged like such, and her bed was much larger than this one, and she _never_ woke past six.

Then the bed shifted, and a large, strong body snuggled closer.

Oh. Still dreaming.

But it felt too real to be a dream. Too physical, too filled with little details that her imagination couldn’t possibly conjure. Like how gently the densely-muscled arm curled protectively around her waist, or how delightfully smooth her lover’s calves were, or how the sultry breath steaming across the nape of her neck flushed her heart with warmth.

No, not a dream. After so many restless nights where she’d awoken hot between the legs for _her_ , so many fantasies of happiness in the form of rose-red eyes and muted, snowy hair, this was no dream. She didn’t know which god or goddess to thank, but she didn’t have to; her very own goddess shifted closer, and Fiora snuggled further until all she felt was warmth.

Heat pooled between them like they were a single entity, trapped by the thick covers up to their chins, sunshine glowing lazily across the rumpled blankets. They wore a coat of sweat beneath it all, sticky slick dried between their thighs, and the purple marks stained around her throat would cause attention. But they reminded Fiora of the passion that spawned them, and that brought more happiness into her heart.

They were both awake, shifting imperceptibly, but soaking in the comfortable puddle of warmth nearly lulled them to sleep again. Fiora couldn’t ask for a more perfect morning.

Hours seemed to pass before either of them spoke, and hearing Riven’s smooth voice mellowed further from morning and drowsy love humming warmly into her ear brought a smile to Fiora’s lips.

“Good morning,” Riven said and pressed a kiss behind her ear.

“Good morning, to you, too, ma chèrie,” Fiora mumbled.

A quiet moment passed before Riven tentatively asked, “What does that mean?”

Fiora turned her head, eyes fluttering open so she could witness Riven’s beauty. “It means _my darling_ , mon amour.” And she kissed her over her shoulder, reaching around and sifting her fingers through Riven’s short, untamed locks of silver.

“And what does…” Riven murmured breathlessly between kisses, “… _mon amour_ mean?”

“It means _my love_ , ma belle,” she said, and no pair of lips ever tasted so exquisite.

“And what does _ma belle_ mean?” Riven asked, and they paused, and their eyes fluttered open, and Fiora couldn’t resist a mischievous smile. She opened her mouth to speak, but before they could rattle through the entirety of the Demacian vocabulary, Riven sealed it with a kiss, and Fiora wrapped her arms around her neck and they lost themselves in each other.

It turned passionate in two beats of a heart, Riven clambering on top, and Fiora’s chest thumped with anticipation. The masterful application of tongue devolved into something greedier and sloppier, and Fiora’s fingernails raked down Riven’s scarred back. Legs interwove, and Fiora moaned when Riven’s thick thigh rubbed her swelling clit.

She clamped down on Riven, grinding her hips up into her lover’s thigh, stealing as much sweet friction as she could take from such a simple motion. Riven did the same, breathing into Fiora’s mouth, and they were rutting their bodies against each other like depraved animals. An orgasm loomed on the hazy horizon, and if this continued, Fiora would cum onto Riven’s thigh.

But Riven stopped, resting the full weight of her body on Fiora’s, and she whined when Riven broke the kiss.

She opened her eyes, a flustered question poised to fire, but she lost the ability to speak when those eyes looked down at her like that. Red and dewy, like rose petals in the early morn, and just as lovely and intricate.

Riven mouthed something, and Fiora didn’t need to watch her lips to know what she’d said.

“ _I love you._ ”

Love.

An emotion not entirely foreign to Fiora, but she’d never explored it so intimately until this moment. The gravity of her figure that was so strong that Fiora couldn’t look anywhere but her when she entered the room, the delectably eye-rolling intoxication of her scent, the uncontrollable flutter of Fiora’s heart when she smiled, walked, breathed, existed anywhere near her; it was all new territory, but Fiora was no stranger to exploring the frontiers wildly outside her comfort zone.

But this, Fiora realized, was comfortable. Like she belonged here, pinned to the mattress by her strong warrior, transfixed by her eyes, her lips, her body bearing down on her.

“I love you,” Fiora whispered, and they shared one kiss.

One, sweeping kiss that stole their breath and claimed their hearts and poured their feelings through their tongues, and then Riven descended in a trail of kisses

But she stopped at her breast, looked up and Fiora looked down.

Their gaze held as Riven locked her lips around Fiora’s breast, kneading her nipple with her tongue, and Fiora had only a moment before a single finger slipped into her warmth.

It was amazing, the feeling of her lover inside her; she’d felt cock in the time before she’d accepted her sexuality, and while the thickness was pleasant, there was nothing between her and her partners. But here, where Fiora’s heart stirred with passion for this woman, that one finger brought her greater pleasure than Fiora could ever imagine.

So when another finger pushed inside her, Fiora’s clenched hands nearly tore the fabric of the bedsheets above her head, crying out in bliss. She felt Riven hum contentedly around her nipple, pumping a mild pace while she feasted enthusiastically on Fiora’s chest.

“Oh… Oh… _Ohhhh_ ….” Fiora moaned, unable and unwilling to stifle herself. She’d hidden herself behind a cold, unfeeling mask for long enough, and in the throes of passion, she couldn’t give a damn what a _True Demacian_ was.

Riven’s thumb met her clit, swirling it like her fingers swirled her insides, and Fiora’s hips bucked lightly. Teeth pinched her nipple, rolling it over, lashing it with a hot, wet tongue, and Fiora knew what heaven was like.

And then the fingers curled, discovered a spot inside Fiora that flashed blinding white pleasure, and _this_ was truly heaven. Her lover deep inside her, fingers pumping, twisting, spreading her tight walls, devouring her breasts with skillful savagery; Fiora wailed a string of expletives so profane that a professional escort would blush madly.

Stroke after deep, curling stroke rubbed her insides, and Fiora’s body twisted hotly, deliriously mumbling while she grappled the sheets above her head. Molten pressure built and built in her core, dripping down Riven’s wrist, and Fiora was so close to release.

It was then she recognized what Riven was doing: licking letters into her sensitive tit.

“My angel,” she was saying.

And just like that, with a curl of Riven’s fingers and a flick of her nipple, Fiora came miserably.

Hot pleasure burst from her thighs, and she quivered uncontrollably as euphoria filled her body. Her spine curled off the bed, her lover’s name endlessly falling from her dry tongue, and her tight walls tensed around her lover’s fingers as they pumped and twisted and fucked her through the orgasm that curled her toes and flooded her body with hot, tingling bliss.

It lasted an eternity, locked in a carnal rapture that ebbed and flowed like frothing waves of the ocean. Even when the bliss bled from her mind, her body still convulsed faintly, chest heaving for air, white spots floating behind her eyelids.

Then all that was left was an affectionate warmth that filled her entire body, brought a wide, dopey smile to her cheeks, and she stretched her arms and her back.

Riven’s weight bore down upon her again, and Fiora smiled wider, wrapping her legs around her waist and her arms around her back. Cuddling her close, savoring how intimately Riven’s body pressed down on hers, basking in the glow of a fresh, intense orgasm.

“What were you saying?” Riven asked.

“Hmm?” Fiora sing-songed a gentle hum, because her body was deliciously warm and Riven was deliciously close and her head was swimming in the aftermath.

“You seem to speak another language when I make love to you,” Riven said, nuzzling Fiora’s temple. “What were you saying?”

Fiora whispered into Riven’s ear with soft sensuality. “The dirtiest things you could possibly imagine…”

Riven’s skin flushed. “Really?”

“No,” Fiora whispered, nibbling her lobe, flicking her tongue across the shell. “Even dirtier…”

Riven shivered, and Fiora smiled wickedly as her hand ghosted across Riven’s back and crawled lower and lower and lower…

 

**ooooo**

 

The scars were so much worse than Fiora had thought they were. Lost in lust and overcome with excitement, she hadn’t noticed the severity of her lover’s injuries until Riven had nakedly stepped into the shower.

Swaddled in trailing blankets to protect their modesty, they wandered lazily to Fiora’s room because, like everything else in Fiora’s quarters, the bathroom there was the best in the house. Riven had been here previously, about a month before now, but never under these pretenses.

However, she hadn’t seen the bathroom, and with her first footfall across the threshold, Fiora could tell Riven was awestruck. Opulence was an everyday luxury for Fiora, and she sometimes forgot that not everyone napped to the tinkle of a silver and gold mobile as a toddler. The blanket draped around Riven’s shoulders dropped to the floor.

And so did Fiora’s jaw.

She didn’t know what she expected out of a burn wound. The general premise was straightforward, but Fiora wouldn’t ever have imagined the aftermath to be so… painful.

“I think it is safe to assume that-,” Riven cut off when she noticed Fiora gawking at the doorway, whose attention snapped from Riven’s back to Riven’s eyes. Words wouldn’t form, and Fiora desperately wished they would, because she looked like a fool and Riven was curling in on herself.

Her shoulders tensed, her feet flighty, and all of that cool confidence oozing from her persona, that conviction that guided her body and her heart and her choices; it all melted away, like the skin on her back, until she was this raw, exposed _woman_.

That, out of everything strange, shocked Fiora the most. Because she didn’t see Riven as a woman; she saw her as a warrior, a soldier of sharp blade and sharper mind. A bastion against those that tried to harm her, totally in control of her feelings and desires, completely unflappable and inhumanely fearless.

But here, in the quiet, chilly air of Fiora’s bathroom, she was none of those things. She was emotional, and needy, and doubtful of herself as much as others. She was squishy and vulnerable, scarred on the outside but still bleeding on the inside. Afraid, so terribly afraid. She was completely and totally _human_.

Something fools might call _weak_ , and Fiora knew how much Noxians despised the weak.

By the time Fiora moved, it was too late; Riven was already walking away, glumly making for the shower.

It was like Riven was a different person; she jumped nervously when the first jet of water hit her skin. She stood with her back to Fiora, but she remembered her hideous injuries, and she turned to shield her vulnerability. But she couldn’t bear to face Fiora, shame written all over her face, so she awkwardly turned away to hide her face. But that exposed her back, and she was caught in the middle, awkwardly bearing her fidgeting flank. Her whole figure curled into herself, head bowed low, arms crossed over her chest.

She was on the verge of tearful panic when Fiora followed after her.

A heavy steam rolled across the tiled floor by the time Fiora entered the shower, and she ignored the streams of water pelting them from all sides. Fiora was a tall woman, but Riven still had sixty pounds and half a head on her. She didn’t need to be tall to be brave, though, and with Riven hunched over like she was, they were almost the same height.

“Riven,” Fiora said, and the hiss of the shower must’ve garbled her words, because Riven didn’t react. Or Riven was ignoring her.

Fiora stepped forward, placed her hand on her shoulder, and Riven jolted from the contact. Riven’s crimson, insecure eyes briefly made contact with Fiora’s, but she could only hold the gaze for a moment before humiliation forced her head away.

Fiora didn’t say anything. Instead, she stepped closer, reached around, firmly held her hips, and turned her around so she was facing the other way.

Like someone had raked hot coals all up Riven’s back and down her arms, and then smacked her with a tenderizing mallet.

Recently, over a pitcher of iced lemonade, Riven had presented her life story. How she razed villages in the name of something that ended up a lie, how she paid for it with her flesh and her sanity, and Fiora could tell how awful it had been. A decade later, and still the wound was gnarly and grotesque. But it seemed Riven had purposefully excluded a crucial element to her tale.

“You told of your arms and how they were burned,” Fiora said softly, eyes trailing farther south. “You said nothing of your back.”

Riven didn’t say anything, and Fiora expected that.

Wanted it, really. Because words couldn’t describe what Fiora felt when she first touched the warped skin of her lover’s back.

There was morbid fascination as her fingertips grazed Riven’s spine. Fiora hadn’t witnessed much gore besides the wounds she’d inflicted on her rivals, and even the worst lacerations paled in comparison to the mangled flesh reaching from the nape of her neck, flowing down to just above her tailbone, washing down her arms all the way to her wrists.

There was the realization of how much this must have hurt as she perused the crests and valleys of the warped skin. How horrible the agony would have been, how torturous it must be to have the flesh on her back burning away. And subsequently, how strong Riven must be to endure something like this, to stand up and limp away when the pain was enough to inflict temptations of suicide.

Anger. So much anger as she trailed to Riven’s lower back. Rising fury at whatever and whoever could do something like this to someone like Riven. Blind rage that anyone could even _think_ to hurt her amour. Why, she wanted them all in the Hall of Blades. She wanted their throats at the point of her bluesteel, to watch the blood spill from their gaping throats. The anger she felt was overwhelming, like a flood of lava through her veins.

Then Riven shifted, and it all washed away with the water.

Riven thought she was hideous, Fiora realized. She hid her scars beneath layers of bandages because she thought they were disgusting, cowered because she thought Fiora would hate them.

But Fiora could never hate them. They were a reminder of how strong Riven was, and a reminder that Riven could’ve given up. She could’ve curled into a ball and embraced death, and Fiora would never have met her. And yet, she hadn’t. She’d survived, and with her, she brought pain that would last decades, but Fiora could deal with that. As long as she could hold Riven in her arms, she could deal with that.

The scars were a reminder that Riven had chosen to move on. That Fiora was almost alone, but because Riven was strong, Fiora had someone to call her own. How could she do anything but love Riven’s scars?

Fiora kissed Riven’s flesh. Right on the nub of her spine, just above the area between her shoulder blades. The long, loving kiss to her flesh was Fiora’s promise, and the swipe of her tongue was Fiora’s signature. Then she planted one to the left and one to the right, just because Riven tasted so good.

The reaction was immediate. Riven’s whole body shuddered, shoulders heaving with hard-fought breath, and Fiora turned her around.

Riven’s arms were pliant when Fiora pried them from her body, guided her hands to Fiora’s hips, and placed them where they belonged. And then Fiora gently raised Riven’s chin until they were face to face.

“Look at me,” Fiora quietly demanded.

Riven did, eyes brimming with dread. Maybe she thought that this was where Fiora would break it off. Maybe she thought herself so despicable-.

Fiora couldn’t even finish that thought, so she stepped in close, cupped Riven’s face, and kissed her with more passion than anything she’d ever done.

Riven made a noise, something between a sob and a strangled choke.

And then it came crashing down, and Riven was kissing her back and sobbing into her mouth, and Fiora swallowed all of it. They were bittersweet; bitter because Riven was in pain, and sweet because she was opening up to her. Showing Fiora everything, and like a treasure hunter in a tomb of jewels, Fiora stole every little bit that she could take.

Her arms reached up and wrapped around Riven’s neck, tilting her head for a better angle into Riven’s mouth, because maybe if she could swallow some of her grief, she could relieve Riven of her pain. Riven held her so desperately close that not even the hot water concealing Riven’s tears could fit between their bodies, and her hands glided over Fiora’s back, her shoulders, her hair, her thighs, her ass like she couldn’t enough of any of it. Fiora could empathize with that; it was how she felt with Riven’s tongue.

When the kiss broke and Riven simply needed someone to hold, Fiora stroked the nape of her neck as Riven wept into her shoulder. The water poured over them, the rising bank of steam rolling across the floor and licking the walls like wisps of firelight.

Fiora’s fingers crawled across the trembling expanse of twisted flesh, over her shoulder blades, down her spine, then back up again. Riven’s sobs gradually petered, and despite the scalding, liquid heat assaulting them from every aerial angle, she shivered with every caress of Fiora’s fingers down her body.

Riven’s voice was tight and her nose was stuffy when she spoke. “You are…? You do not think…?”

Fiora put her lips to her ear and whispered, “I think you’re a most beautiful creature, and I think anyone harboring adverse opinions are fools.”

Riven squeezed her tightly. “I do not-… deserve-…” but she wisely stopped herself before Fiora had to scold her for believing such foolish notions.

In her youth, Fiora would look upon all the beggars and the children in the streets and she would ask herself why she deserved anything more than them. “Because of your blood,” was always the answer, but even in her naïve youth, she thought that silly. Eventually, she learned to accept that some were more fortunate than others, and to not get caught up in the details and just enjoy whatever Lady Luck had to offer.

But she doubted that would help Riven, so instead, she said, “I was thinking the same thing.”

The rest of the day was soapy hands cradling slippery bodies and thoroughly discovering the benefits of a king-sized bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I like my smut. I won't overload you guys with it, but this is E for Explicit for a reason.   
> Stuff picks up in the near future, don't you worry about that.   
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, as you may have noticed. I apologize, but it's been a month since I last uploaded, and I figured you all wanted to see that I'm not dead (yet). Please enjoy, and I hope to see you all next chapter, whenever that may be!


	27. The Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Hannah, Batman, it has been a loooong time since I've updated! I know Halloween was a month ago, but this was supposed to be a little Halloween special, and while I wanted to continue with the story, I also knew that that would take an even longer time to produce a chapter. So I finished this and I hope you like it. The first part is fluffy, and the last 3/5 is really smutty.   
> Please enjoy!

The Harrowing. A world-wide phenomenon recognized by most nations on the continent.

First, there were the Thirteen Days of Twilight, where The Moon’s ghoulish disciples raised an army to reclaim the Overworld. Then, there was the Day of Reckoning- the thirty-first of October- where the lunar armies of howling werewolves and stumbling undead and wraiths rattling their rusting chains surged from The Void to do battle with the forces of Runeterra. Finally, there were the Thirteen Days of Dawn, where the Overworld overcame the Chaos brought on by Midnight’s Gem and restored order to Runeterra.

Or so say the legends.

Riven had faith in legends; she was one herself, after all. Maybe she hadn’t personally performed the feats for which she was famous for, but Master Yi was a name known by many. Thus, she hadn’t so much as quirked a curious brow at Fiora’s insistence on having a batch of pumpkins carved and lit with candle by nightfall.

“To ward off _loups garous_ ,” Fiora had said, “ _werewolves_.”

Riven wasn’t sure how a set of gutted pumpkins would defend a household from lycanthropes (especially since, like wolves, werewolves traveled in packs), but Fiora’s eyes were deathly serious.

A pumpkin was required for every window, a dizzying task for just two people. Those who could afford it normally hired a platoon of specialists whose year-round duty was to decorate the noble mansions for ceremonies like marriage, Snowdown, and The Harrowing. But, being as deep into the countryside as they were, ferrying workers this far wasn’t ideal for Fiora’s wallet. Then there was insurance to take care of, and she just knew some dimwitted dolt would disregard the warnings and stray outside the fence.

Or that was the excuse.

In reality, she preferred- and trusted- her own fleet of staff to handle something so intimate. The professionals knew all of the groundwork, the tricks with the lighting, and which color schemes accentuated the geometry of the house, but it was always so crisp and clean and _boring_. And Fiora, all alone in her grey house in a grey mist in a grey mood, had grown tired of boring. While symmetry and rhythm were important to her as a duelist, she couldn’t deny that crayon marks on a sloppily-carved pumpkin held more charm than one that was sterile, yet masterfully sculpted.

That was how Riven found herself in the gardens, pumpkin in one hand and her dagger in the other. The October air was chilly, the ever-present mist quietly absorbing the chatter of parents and the laughter of children as they pranced between thorny rosebushes. Lanterns tried to combat the fog, but it was no use; ethereal wisps of orange floated here and there, and they reminded Riven of the faeries of the Howling marshes, leading travelers astray. 

The mood was just right. Riven sat on a cold, stone bench in something warmer than her usual getup, and Fiora sat beside her. All around them was the smell of gutted pumpkins and the satisfaction of each other’s company.

When Fiora caught Riven glancing her way for the fourth time, she frowned.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Riven replied, but she looked back, eying Fiora from her long legs to her adorably inquisitive expression. “You are pretty.”

She wanted to smack herself upside the head.

Fiora cocked her head, a smile equal parts confused and amused playing on her lips. “Thank you?”

A group of young maidens giggled.

“What I meant to say,” Riven corrected herself, “was that you are pretty without your makeup and your jewelry.”

At that, Fiora blushed, but only lightly. Riven smiled; she found casual, playful Fiora in sweatpants and ruffled hair much more appealing than noble, royal Fiora in sharp gold and a painted mask. It’d been a rare sight until recently, and now that Fiora was emerging from her shell, they were both happier for it, if not somewhat uncomfortable. Dressing so casually before her servants wasn’t easy for her.

“How does this one fair?” Riven asked while holding up the pumpkin for inspection.

Fiora inspected the curves and the valleys like a jeweler would a diamond. She shook her head. “The walls are too thick.”

Riven scowled. “How can you tell that just by looking at it?” She shook her head. “Nevermind.”

Despite being there for the sole purpose of carving a pumpkin, they’d yet to carve any pumpkins due to Fiora’s apparent pickiness. Some were too large, and some were too small. Some were too thick, and some were too thin. Some didn’t possess the right amount of sheen.

Riven pretended to inspect a batch of gourds at their feet, but truthfully, she was picking at random when she leaned over and plucked another pumpkin from the patch.

“How about this one?”

Fiora scrunched her nose, and Riven already knew the answer.

“This one is oblong, and there is a mark here,” Fiora said, and Riven concentrated on how ridiculous that sounded and not on the almost-sensual manner with which Fiora’s slender finger traced the gouge.

“We can turn it around,” Riven offered. “No one will notice its shape from a distance.”

“I disagree,” Fiora insisted. “Go put that one back and grab another.”

Riven huffed irritably. “Why will this one not do?”

“I just told you. The shape is too oblong and there’s-.”

“That is an excuse, and you know it,” Riven said. She leaned close so that only Fiora could hear her hushed voice. “Fiora, darling, why are you being so picky?”

The answer welled somewhere in those icy blue eyes, and for a moment, Fiora looked to confess something. But even before the approaching man interrupted them, Riven could see Fiora’s edges harden.

“What?” Fiora asked impatiently to the man.

Somewhat taken aback by her tone, he stammered, “I- the children made something for you. They would like you to see it.”

Fiora softened. She drew in a breath and stood. “Show me the way.”

Riven watched her until she was nothing but a silhouette drifting through the mist.

“That woman…” she said aloud to no one in particular, bowing her head, carding her fingers through her hair, “That woman…”

“That woman what?” someone asked.

Riven raised her head and identified the source: a young maiden with chestnut hair and amber eyes sitting amongst the others who all stared in Riven’s direction.

“That woman what?” the maiden asked again, and one of her friends nudged her arm and glared. The maiden paid their annoyance no attention.

A thoughtful silence ensued while Riven’s eyes danced through the mist. “I don’t know,” she finally answered.

The maiden nodded, but still she looked on expectantly.

“She really likes you,” the maiden said, and now her friend was desperately attempting to shut her up.

Riven recalled tender kisses and loving caresses, wicked grins and soft cries of pleasure, lazy mornings and delicate embraces, but most of all, she remembered how those frozen seas of blue melted at three simple words.

“Yes,” Riven said, faintly smiling. “I know.”

The maiden nodded. Though she yearned to say something more, she was hesitant.

“It is alright, you can speak your mind.”

She nodded again, but with less confidence. “I think… you are the first woman she- the Mademoiselle has ever… _liked_.”

The group of maidens, and Riven, shifted uncomfortably.

“I know this already,” she said.

“Then you must also know that this is the Mademoiselle’s first holiday with someone she… _likes_?”

That hadn’t explicitly occurred to Riven, but she could infer that the holidays must’ve been especially lonely for her lover.

“The Harrowing- you don’t know much about Demacian legend, do you?” the maiden asked.

Riven shook her head.

“To us Demacians, The Carving of the Pumpkins is a ritual of upmost importance. The richest of nobles or the poorest of beggars; it does not matter who you are, just that you must participate.” The maiden giggled. “Why, one time, when the markets were closed and all the pumpkins were in the sills, I even saw a man draw a face on his-.”

The collective glares of the other women burned the maiden’s cheeks red with embarrassment, and she pursed her lips, bowing her head regretfully.

“Apologies,” the maiden mumbled.

“Apology accepted,” Riven said, though she saw nothing worth apologizing for. She knew better than to argue; Demacians were tremendously stubborn in the way of righting perceived wrongs.

“Anyways,” the maiden said, clearing her throat and smoothing her skirt, “The Carving of the Pumpkins is an intimate act. Few do it alone, and those that do…”

The maiden trailed off, but Riven didn’t mind. Her attention was on the mass of people scattered throughout the gardens. On the families, the mothers, the fathers, the sons, and the daughters all clustered together. On the friends enjoying glasses of wine on picnic blankets. On lovers cast to the fringes where privacy was easier to find, where they could cuddle and kiss and laugh to themselves while they whittled away at their personal piece of décor.

“And those that do, do what?” Riven asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Riven looked to the maiden again. “Those that carve pumpkins alone do what?”

The maiden was silent for a spell, the cool air replacing words and crawling under Riven’s shirt.

“Those that do it alone are like the Mademoiselle,” the maiden said. “No one to love.”

That struck Riven harder than she thought it would.

“I think the Mademoiselle simply wants her- and yours- first time to be perfect,” the maiden said. “I know I would.”

No one spoke after that. The huddled group of women fidgeted with their skirts and Riven stared off into the mist, mindlessly fiddling with the dagger in her palm.

Fiora returned shortly, her disposition lighter. Whatever the children had created had pleased her. Her slippers padded soundlessly across the cobblestone path, and Riven found herself oddly disappointed at the lack of click-clacking of high-heels. Fiora seated herself on the bench and scooted until there was cozily little distance between them.

“The children carved me a pumpkin,” Fiora said. “They said they all had a hand in its creation.”

“What did it look like?” Riven asked.

Amusement flitted through her eyes. “Like I’d used it to practice targeting. What is it you Noxians say? It’s the thought that counts.”

Riven chuckled. “No Noxian I have ever known has said that.”

“Psh.”

Riven studied her reflection in the flat of the dagger’s blade. When the words came to mind, she set it aside and looked into Fiora eyes until Fiora looked into hers.

Fiora frowned inquisitively. “What?”

“You are perfect.”

Unexpecting of such a blatant compliment, Fiora was rendered speechless for a moment. Then a shy grin crept across her lips and rose red invaded her pale cheeks. “Thank you.”

Riven scooted closer, intertwining their fingers. She’d started it, so she may as well finish it. “I am happy when I am with you. I am happy _here_ with you.”

Fiora was just starting to believe her.

“I enjoy sharing this,” Riven motioned to the whole of the gardens, where children giggled and families came together and lovers cuddled beneath the wisps of the lanterns’ light, “all of this, with you. There is no one I would rather be with, in this moment, than you.”

Fiora understood. Or Riven thought she understood; her eyes were difficult to read in times of distress.

Riven freed the distress from Fiora with a kiss. Soft upon her soft lips, parting with a playful nibble. Fiora’s icy blue were clear as day.

“Now,” Riven said, hefting the pumpkin in one hand, presenting it for Fiora to inspect, “does this one fit your specifications?”

Fiora’s fingers trailed down the grooves, tapping certain places and polishing others. When she was done, she laid her head to rest on Riven’s shoulder. “It seems good enough.”

Riven placed the pumpkin in her lap and retrieved the knife. While Fiora’s arm migrated around Riven’s back, Riven plunged the knife and began cutting. A mound of seeds and many playful arguments over Riven’s artistic abilities later and they held something that resembled a jack-o-lantern in their sticky grasp.

Before either of them could comment on its appearance, Fiora pecked Riven on the cheek. “Thank you for this,” she said, placing a hand atop the lid of the jack-o-lantern. “It means more than I can express in words.”

“Then may I have a kiss instead?” Riven asked with a smile.

Fiora smiled. “As if you need to even ask.”

Lips to lips, Riven decided she liked pumpkin carving.

 

**ooooo**

 

Fiora wasn’t a fan of politics. There was too much dishonesty, too many serpents with silver tongues promising things they couldn’t uphold. It pitted brother against sister, the rich against the poor. It made enemies of friends and friends of enemies. It killed her father.

However. Out of sheer necessity, because fulfilling the role of chief executive officer of the largest overseas trade corporation in Valoran necessitated many things, Fiora couldn’t sit idly by and let the pesky reporters run their mouth without her input.

Thus, the costume. She’d received an invitation for a Harrowing Ball from a partner integral to de Laurent operations in and around the Freljord, and because refusal could be interpreted as discourteous, she’d accepted “graciously”. She’d rather eat her own toenail than mill about in someone else’s manor answering foolish questions from patrons and newshounds, but politics and all that. She would use this as an opportunity to scope out potential business candidates. Hopefully it wouldn’t be so boring now that Riven would be there.

The costume was specially tailored, as would be expected from a woman of her stature. It had to be worthy of the Head of House Laurent, to compete with others of her prestige, and to fit the theme all at once.

The Vampyres, an ancient race of beings rumored to inhabit the dankest of dungeons and the highest of cliff-side castles; also masterfully portrayed in a glossy shade of nightmare black upon Fiora’s imposing form. There was bit of everything for everyone. Flawless, gleaming silver to flaunt her wealth to fellow nobles, and a blade of quicksilver at her hip to satisfy the veterans. The house insignia inscribed upon her shoulder plate to announce her loyalties to her allies and enemies, and skintight leather, ample cleavage, and sinful red lipstick to keep Riven glancing her way.

Riven. Ah, Riven. Everything circled back to her, didn’t it? If Fiora was being honest with herself, she wouldn’t have chosen to imitate a Vampyre if it couldn’t have been made _visually appealing_.

“Alright, Madam. You may rest your arms.”

Fiora let her arms return to her sides, the servants having tied the ties and strapped the straps to keep the costume firmly where it was. Her eyes wandered the reflection in the mirror, appraising aspects of the cloth, wondering how long the spell that transformed the purple stripe in her hair into a snowy white would last beneath the stress of boredom.

Her posture straightened and her hands came to clasp behind back. Her chin upturned slightly, just between snobby rich and holier-than-though. Just like mother had taught.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Like the Head of House Laurent.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She stepped down from the stool, inspected potentially problematic areas once more, and turned to leave. The closet, while warm and strangely cozy, was not her preferred place to be at that moment. Riven mentioned something about a surprise, and she was curious to see Riven’s costume. She’d been oddly insistent to keep hers a secret.

She turned the rose-embroidered handle, opened the door, took two steps into the room, and for the first time in many, many years, Fiora almost tripped over her heels.

Riven took Fiora’s incredulous gaze to be a bad thing, and what little confidence she possessed came crashing down.

Anxiously, Riven stuttered, “Damnit, I-… Sorry, um… Should I go, um, change-?”

“No!” Fiora blurted.

Long, lean legs wrapped in silky stockings, curves showcased in a purple, form-fitting corset, scrumptious collarbone bare for all to see and Fiora to feast upon, breasts practically spilling from the bodice; why in heaven’s name would she want Riven to change out of _that_?

“No,” Fiora said, calmer, advancing one step at a time. “You stay right where you are.”

She came to a stop a mere half-stride away. She didn’t mean to stare- oh, who was she kidding, of course she did- but she didn’t hide the hunger that doubtless played across her eyes.

“So I-…” Riven gulped. Adorable. “I am not… improperly dressed?”

“I confess I’ve never seen a patron show so much skin at a ball before,” Fiora admitted. Her hands restlessly fidgeted; the urge to touch was strong, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop if she started.

Riven’s face blanched. “Ball?” she asked weakly.

“What?” Firoa asked absently.

“You called it a ‘ball’ this time,” Riven said, “not a party.”

“What’s the difference?”

“What-?” Riven blurted, flustered. She carded her fingers through her hair, disturbing the fuzzy pair of bunny ears perched atop her head. “I am dressed for a _party_ ,” Riven insisted adamantly, heart pounding, “and you are dressed for a _ball_. That is the difference.”

Riven’s face flushed red, and her breath came quicker and quicker. Her hands balled and unballed, and she looked ready to dart for the bathroom. She looked on the verge of-.

Panic? No, that couldn’t be right. Riven never panicked.

Fiora reached over and took Riven’s hands in hers, and even that little, innocent bit of contact derailed her train of thought. “You’ll be fine, mon lapin. We’ll… We’ll throw on a coat, call you a flapper from Piltover, and call it good. Alright? Just…” Fiora shivered, “Don’t change. Please.”

Riven appeared placated enough. Enough to steal a glance or two down into Fiora’s cleavage. “You look nice.”

“And you look…” sensual, tantalizing, outrageously sexy, “beautiful.” Fiora briefly regarded the craftsmanship of her lover’s costume. “Where did you find this?”

“Oh, um,” an embarrassed smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, “The same tailor that made yours, she asked me if I had any special requests. I remembered that you said you had a thing for showgirls, so…”

The silence that followed was hot and heavy like a humid summer day. Fiora was aware that there were others in the room, and they were honestly one of the only factors keeping her from dropping to her knees and eating Riven into tears.

“Madam?” a servant asked.

“Yes?”

“The ball will begin shortly.”

“Indeed, it will.”

The servant was right. They needed to leave soon lest they disgrace the host with her absence. However, she couldn’t just walk away from this tempting delicacy without swiping a slice for herself to tide her over.

She took Riven’s purple, painted lips in her own and worried for not a second how her makeup would be ruined. She’d have plenty of time to reapply during the ride, she thought to herself as she pushed into Riven’s mouth and savored the slick friction of their tongues. Hands brushed hesitantly up bodies all too willing to surrender to touch. Goddesses, Fiora was going to devour her the first chance they had.

Panting like dogs, they separated.

A few moments passed before they adopted any sense of public decency. A servant awkwardly offered a fur coat for Riven to take, and she gratefully did so.

“Shall we leave?” Riven asked.

No. “Yes.”

Riven nodded, and when she stepped forward, she nearly rolled her ankle. Fiora looked down.

Heels. Riven was wearing high heels.

“Sorry,” Riven said sheepishly, “I have only worn these once before. I will need a moment to get used to them.”

Fiora could only pray that the damp spot between her thighs wasn’t visible. This was going to be a long night.

 

**ooooo**

 

Riven thudded against the door to their room and Fiora didn’t give her a breath of a moment to recover before she was on her. Pressed up against her body, hands raking up her thighs, lips mashed and teeth smashed. No amount of her was enough, and Riven’s moans and cries of surprise drove Fiora into a savage state of mind where all she could think of was how Riven’s flesh felt beneath her groping hands.

One of them opened the door and they stumbled over the threshold. Riven’s doughy ass in both her hands, she pushed her whimpering lover in the general direction of the bed.

Somewhere between their exit of the ball and their midnight stroll of the town, Riven had lost her coat and Fiora had to deal with the ravishing sight of Riven’s shiny butt reflecting the moonlight for the remainder of the evening. May this costume survive to be used another day, Fiora thought, because it’s about to be torn to shreds.

They tripped onto the mattress, Fiora on top, and she was thankful for Riven’s sneaky fingers because if her lover hadn’t already disrobed her of her armor plates before then, Riven would surely have been poked by something unpleasant. But she wasn’t, so there wasn’t anything to interrupt the violation of Riven’s mouth.

Fiora would’ve chuckled to herself had she had been composed enough to do so; for as dominant as Riven was, she was a mewling kitten when it was her legs spreading for an eager mouth.

Fiora pulled away just enough to grip the corset and roughly tugged until Riven’s breasts popped free. She kissed her again, swallowed Riven’s throaty moan when she reached up and squeezed her breasts in both hands, and ground her hips down into Riven’s feverish body.

There was an art to working Riven’s tits. Any other way was just squeezing mounds of flesh, but when palms rolled them in _just_ the right way-.

Riven groaned, spine arching into Fiora’s hands, presenting her chest like an offering to a god.

When fingers tweaked her nipples _just_ like that-.

A gasp escaped her, and her hands gripping the sheets above her head gripped tighter.

Fiora’s hands traveled south, searching for buttons or straps but she couldn’t find any. Fiora parted and Riven complained in heady gibberish. “How in the names of the goddesses,” Fiora mumbled through her teeth, “do you get this thing off?”

“Zipper,” Riven panted, and moved to sit up and help.

Fiora shoved her to the mattress and nipped at her collarbone until the symphony of moans and short breaths were the only words between them. Fiora reached under, felt around until she found her target, and pulled downward. The corset slackened considerably, and Fiora pulled it down as far as she could.

She abandoned her lover’s collarbone in an instant. Riven whined her disapproval, but it morphed into a high-pitched squeal when lips locked around her nipple. As ruthless in bed as she was in the Hall of Blades, Fiora spared no dirty trick nor practiced technique when it came to feasting on her quivering bunny rabbit’s sensitive areas. She left one breast to attend to the other, and when that nipple was puffy and pink and the flesh was thoroughly bruised, she returned to the other.

“Lower,” Riven choked in a whiny voice that wasn’t hers, “please!”

First instinct dictated refusal, but Fiora’s mouth watered and she knew the only way to quench it. Her lips skipped over Riven’s belly- she would come back for it later- and she shifted until she sat between her lover’s legs. The size of Riven’s ass proved an obstacle for removing the corset the rest of the way, and Fiora had to ask herself how Riven fit herself into it in the first place.

But before she could comment, she caught a glance between her lover’s legs. “Oh my,” was all she could say.

Riven was a sopping mess. She’d soaked clear through her lacy panties, and the silky stockings clung to her as Fiora slipped them off.

“What can I say?” Riven mumbled deliriously, “You make me _ughhh-!_ ”

Two rubbing fingers silenced her, and Fiora laid herself down between Riven’s thighs. She almost considered eating her through her panties. But foreplay would only torture them both, so they came off along with the rest.

And then she ate like a starving man would a seven-course meal.

Riven cried out with quivering thighs, and Fiora wrapped her arms around them and dove in nose-deep. If the sounds were an orchestra to her ears, the flavor was the crescendo of a Sona Bellevue concert: enrapturing, delectable, and unmatched. Riven’s taste was bitter, but in a good way. Like a fine wine, and Fiora drank her up.

It wouldn’t be long now. Fiora had only begun a minute ago, had only just brushed against the feeling of satisfaction, of being full, but Riven was worked up and Fiora was good with her mouth. She swiped her tongue across her clit, and the tremors began.

Fiora took a breath, positioned herself comfortably, and when the thighs locked her head in place, she sucked like her life depended on it. If she could taste the sounds escaping Riven’s mouth, the whiny moans, the breathless gasps, the cries for the goddess and Fiora and her goddess, Fiora, she was certain she would ride with Riven in ecstasy.

Even after Riven was limp and the orgasm gradually bled away, Fiora still lapped up the fluids left behind.

She slithered up her lover’s body until she could put her lips to her belly rising and falling with breath, petting affectionately at her lover’s pulsing folds. Riven raised her head and opened her mouth to say something.

But then Fiora’s middle and ring fingers entered her, and her jaw dropped and her head fell back against the sheets and her whole body went taut.

“ _You thought I was done?_ ” Fiora asked, whispered in Higher Demacian against Riven’s skin, “ _You foolish whore. I’ve been waiting all night to fuck you like the whorish showgirl you are._ ”

Her fingers took off with gusto. It was easy to find, the spot within her lover’s wet heat that drew pleasure like a spigot. She hooked into it, rubbing a rapid pace.

“ _You love this, don’t you, you whore?_ ” she whispered between kisses. “ _Being fucked by a rich noblewoman, I know you love this._ ”

Riven’s belly fluttered with every stroke and desperate cry, skin sweaty and sheening. Riven thought Fiora was a goddess, but these sensual, shuddering curves were Fiora’s temple and she worshipped the altar with kisses and pictures painted by bruises.

“ _I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk for weeks._ ”

A gasp, a ragged breath, another gasp cut short by hysterical whines.

While Fiora’s fingers spread Riven apart and raked her spot, her palm ground her clit in coordinated strokes. Riven loved it; her screams were hoarse already and Fiora’s hand was doused. The sounds were as wonderfully wet and hot as her lover’s cunt felt, and so loud that even without the breathy moaning, everyone four rooms down would know what they were doing.

“ _Goddesses, you’re loud, aren’t you? You want them to know how I fuck you, don’t you?_ ” she said between mouthfuls. “ _You filthy, naughty whore, I’ll-_.”

A sharp, long intake of breath, eyes squeezing shut. Body tensing, belly convulsing, walls tightening around Fiora’s fingers. It deter her though; it was more important now than evert that Fiora wouldn’t stop the strokes.

The cries came in forced bursts, like Riven wanted, _needed_ to scream but she was choked by her own orgasm. Fluid leaked from her cunt, smeared everywhere by Fiora’s palm grinding her swollen clit, and the sounds came wetter, faster.

Until Riven’s thighs finally quivered with aftershock and Fiora slowed to a halt while Riven came down, down, down from the stars and opened her eyes.

Fiora sat up. She surveyed the body beneath her, the toned, caramel skin, the gleaming perspiration, the light and shadows cast across muscle. Her breasts were smeared with red lipstick, soft pastries glazed by cherry icing. As was her sensually provocative stomach, and when she looked lower, so was her cunt. Frosted by scarlet and sticky fluids.

A beautiful body for a beautiful soul.

“ _I love you._ ”

Riven frowned, but there was a smile on her lips. “What?”

She traced a lazy finger from the junction of her lover’s thigh to her knee. “You know what I said.”

Riven grinned. Her gaze perused Fiora like she was a fresh-baked maple bar, and Fiora became too aware of her own lack of any climax.

“I like the look of leather on you,” Riven said in a voice as velvety as chocolate, “but I do not like how you are still clothed.”

Fiora mounted Riven’s waist with a pounding heart and heavy-lidded eyes- funny how Riven was the showgirl, yet Fiora was giving the striptease- and reached around behind her back. The straps and ties were there, and she took her time undoing them. The tension rose Riven’s hungry eyes fixated on her cleavage, desperate to see the whole package.

And then, it fell. Just far enough to expose her naked shoulders and her collarbone, a favorite of Rivens.

And then it fell a little more, and her bare nipples stiffened in the cold. A brassier was stitched into the costume as a special request. It was good request, she thought, because she loved it when Riven looked at her like that. Like she wanted her.

The rest came off quicker than Fiora would’ve liked, but she was unbelievably horny and Riven’s hands enjoyed exploring her nakedness. Then Fiora was scooting upwards, over Riven’s breasts, and Riven’s eyes twinkled.

“I thought the Vampyre was supposed to eat, not be eaten.”

A wickedly dominant grin crossed her lips, but she didn’t say anything. Words weren’t as effective on Riven anyway.

She reached up, grabbed a pillow, and propped Riven’s head against it- it helped nullify the issue of their differing heights- and then she swung her legs around until she was facing the other way. She glanced over her shoulder, the faint traces of something deliciously sensual on her lips because Riven liked those faint half-smiles.

No words; a simple understanding passing between their gazes, and then Fiora sat.

A shuddering gasp, but it was from her this time. Wet warmth enveloped all of where she needed it, and just for a moment, she was selfish. Eyes fluttered shut, head lolling, reveling in just how unimaginably _good_ it felt. This was what she’d needed for hours.

Eventually, though it was difficult, she leaned across her lover’s body until she was level with dessert, and she took Riven into her mouth again and she was right where she wanted to be. Bodies hot and close, cunt in wet ecstasy, gooey, bitter delight on her tongue.

It was a race at first. An unspoken competition. But then Fiora realized how gravely she’d underestimated her own ability to completely numb someone with orgasm and how incredibly, incredibly aroused she was and she was spilling all over Riven’s mouth and she was moaning into her meal and she was about to fly apart.

The pressure in her core burst after an embarrassingly short amount of time. It was pure bliss, wave upon rolling wave of warmth, and she ground down onto Riven’s face while she came. Oh, it felt so goddess-damned amazing, and before it was even done, she collapsed onto her lover’s body and simply quivered while the pleasure rolled through.

“I hope that felt as good as it looked,” Riven said.

Fiora smile at her voice. Soft-spoken. Heavily accented.

She raised, supporting her upper body with her arms, and she threw a look over her shoulder. Riven peered over her cheeks, crimson eyes sparkling suggestively, hair a wild, sexy mess of snowy-white atop her head. Bunny ears lopsided but still clinging on, and though she couldn’t see her lips, she knew they were smiling with barely-concealed excitement.

Once again, Fiora didn’t say a word; thick arousal trickled down her thigh, and Riven’s invisible smile grew wider. She descended onto her throne, and Riven’s eyes closed in concentration.

This was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like it? So far, Riven has been the dominant figure, and I wanted to show the more passionate side of Riven's character and relate Fiora's general dominant attitude in a bedroom environment.   
> The next chapter will be real story. I hope to be better on the time, but I can't promise it won't be awhile. Life and such.  
> Thanks for all of the support, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	28. The Unforgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, probably chalked full of mistakes and typos because I was growing impatient and wanted to get another chapter out to you guys. This story has received a ridiculous amount of support, and I'm unspeakably grateful for it! You guys are the best!
> 
> And now, to actually continue the plot, here we go.

He didn’t see him in dreams, anymore. Not his smiling face, not the sapphires twinkling in his eyes, nor the cloak of sky blue fluttering on his shoulders as he ran and ran and ran like the wind. He saw nothing at all; he hadn’t dreamed for so long, and yet, he was so tired. No, he never saw Yone in his dreams anymore.

Now, he saw him in the waking world.

Or he saw something that looked like Yone, at least. Its face was cold and grey, like its skin, and its lips were pulled into a lifeless line. Its eyes were dark and hollow, like someone had stolen the sapphires from its sockets, but he knew it could still see because it was staring right at him, always, _always_ staring. And its faded, colorless cloak was forever still, just like it. Forever still.

Never moving, never walking, never running. Just… standing there. Motionless like a scarecrow, like Yone would never be.

It talked sometimes, too. Whispered to him, like it was whispering now, while he sat with legs crossed before a crackling campfire in the dead of night. It stood to the left, looming at the edge of the flame’s light, and though its mouth never opened, he could hear it mumbling.

“ _Yasuo_ ,” it said, “ _Yasuo… Yasuo…Yasuo…_ ”

He didn’t know he could hate that name- not _his_ name, not anymore- anymore than he already did.

“ _Yasuo…_ ”

The Unforgiven Man ground his teeth, soil sifting through his fingers as he clawed the earth.

“Quiet!” he shouted.

“ _Yasuo…_ ” the thing said in a voice like pine needles rasping against tree bark.

The Unforgiven Man groaned. “Godamnit, leave me alone!”

But it wouldn’t, and it wouldn’t stop whispering. He cupped his hands over his ears, but it was like the words seeped through his skull and into his head.

“ _Yasuo…_ ”

His roar traveled the plains like a gale, and his hand flew to his sword. With a white-knuckled grip, he unsheathed the magnificent blade that could shear pure moonlight in half. He stood and turned, weapon poised for combat. But it was nowhere to be seen. He was hesitant to drop his guard, but when he did, it fell like a sack of boulders and he almost crumbled to the ground with it.

His blade hung limp, like his hair and his cowl and his baggy trousers. Not rustled by any stray breeze.

“I didn’t mean you, too,” he said weakly, head angling to the sky.

He received no answer.

It seemed like the thing had stolen The Wind from him, but the Unforgiven Man knew better. The Wind hadn’t accompanied him for ages, not since he’d awoken one morning and noticed an absence within him. It was gone, abandoned him like a child to a forgotten toy, and now, he had no one.

“Where’ve you gone, old friend?” he whispered.

Silence like the air: cold and stagnant.

“It’s so lonely without you.”

When not a single stalk of dying grass murmured in response, The Unforgiven man closed his eyes and sighed. He took his seat, resting against a great tree trunk, and looked out into the darkness. Somewhere in there was the woman with white hair and crimson eyes. The woman named _Riven_.

The Unforgiven Man made camp at the edge of a forest, and before him swept a plain covered in black night. He was south of the front- he had been for quite a time- and his next target was just over the hill: a Noxian encampment where he would search for _her_. He’d already dismantled several outposts, and bounty hunters were on his trail. Still, he didn’t snuff the flames of his campfire to hide his location; he wanted them to come to him, because maybe they knew where Riven cowered.

The encampment was built upon the razed grounds of a farmhouse, and the surrounding fields, already tilled and planted, became another source of food to supply the Noxian armies. This was back when the war first began, when Noxus was still gaining ground, so the fort had much time to fortify itself. But time was a double-edged sword; the encampment had yet to suffer a counterattack, save the occasional rebellion of enslaved farmers, and with the losses so heavy on the front lines, all arms not absolutely crucial to the success of their individual assignments were shipped off to the “meat grinder”. And because all had been quiet for nearly a decade at the farm, only a skeleton crew remained.

A skeleton crew under command of a Captain. The Captain was the Unforgiven Man’s target, because if anyone knew where a specific unit was located in any certain area, the territory’s Captain would know.

Anticipation squeezed his gut. The other camps he’d searched held not a single clue to the woman’s whereabouts, and the fear of being wrong, the fear of being truly empty of places to search wouldn’t leave his thoughts. He’d scoured the world for a woman named Riven, with white hair, crimson eyes, and Noxian blood, and Noxian Ionia was the only place he’d yet to search. She had to be here.

She _had_ to be here.

 

**ooooo**

 

August only ended yesterday and already a fire had to burn through the day as well as the night to keep warm. The men in the barracks complained of the cold, and two cases of frostbite were reported. Winter would hit them hard again, and growing crops through the season would likely be a futile effort.

God, he hated this place. Winter came sooner and colder than it ever had the right to be, spring was too wet with melting snow to plant anything lest it drown, and summer was too dry. Growing anything here was a nightmare; at least the volcanic soil was rich in nutrients, otherwise they’d be fucked like a Bilgewater whore.

Edgar van Grimsby grumbled under his breath, hands bracing the washbasin. His head was bowed, attention glued to the slippery surface of soapy water, the islands of bubbles floating aimlessly, and generally anything but the mirror hanging above the sink. He knew what he looked like, and he preferred not to remind himself of the dark bags lazing beneath his tired eyes nor of the strands of grey infiltrating his head of hair. _Old_.

That was what this job did to a person. Gave them too many years that they didn’t as for.

Delicate fingers crawled up his back and massaged his taut shoulders. He groaned his thanks.

“It will all be okay, Eddy,” said an accented voice.

He didn’t believe her, but he smiled for her sake. He turned and pulled the woman close to him, fingers exploring jet-black tresses of someone with the sharp features and golden-brown irises of Shuriman heritage. “My beautiful Catriona,” he sighed.

He would’ve gone mad without her at his side, he was sure of it. And the two twin boys huddled around the fireplace behind her back were just another reason for him to be afraid.

He cupped his hand to his lover’s cheek and spoke with dire seriousness. “Don’t answer the door to anyone, alright? Under no circumstances are you to open that door to anyone but me or the lieutenant.”

The smile disappeared from the woman’s face, replaced by a worried frown. “I know, I know. You speak as if this is the last we will see of you.”

He was hesitant to speak, gaze averting to the boys who watched them curiously.

The woman gently turned his head until he looked at her again. “Is this the last we will see of you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, of course not. But you know I’m a cautious man, so-.”

“So you will come back to us,” she finished, and he knew from the look in her eyes that pushing the subject further would result in argument. He sighed and let his forehead rest against hers for a brief moment. When they parted, he braved the mirror.

Damn, he looked old.

As he donned his plate and strapped his sword to his hip, he threw one last glance at the two boys by the fireplace, now joined by the woman. He nodded once. Then he silently exited through the door, closed it behind him, and paused until he heard the deadbolt lock and the bar fall into place.

It was morning, and it was cold. His breath froze in front of his face, and he shivered when cool air contacted the bare nape of his neck. To the right were the barracks, an unremarkable set of long, stone buildings, most of which housed few soldiers anymore, and to the left were the tents of the farmer’s quarters, where slaves, prisoners, and anyone else who tended to Noxus’ crops resided. Across a small courtyard was stationed Command, a building almost indistinguishable from the mess hall and the barracks, but that was intended.

He quickly made for Command. Very few mingled around the courtyard, just the passing patrol and a messenger or two, and when he reached the double doors to his destination, the two guards positioned on either side saluted. He halted, nodded acknowledgment, and waited for the doors to creak open before entering. A rush of warm air greeted him, and he eagerly stepped inside.

Lieutenant Travers met him on the other side with a salute and a grim expression.

“Captain.”

He nodded. “Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant fell in beside him as he walked the short hallway to the map room. “The message arrived last night, sir. From the scouting patrol you sent to Outpost Theta.”

“And?”

“Wiped out, sir. No survivors.”

He sighed. They entered a room occupied by strategists huddled around a table upon which was set a map, and upon that was set a variety of pieces symbolizing fronts, outposts, and patrol routes, both allied and hostile. He noticed with a taut jaw that yet another piece symbolizing an outpost was knocked over.

“And that makes how many, now?” he asked. “Five?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck.”

“I agree, sir.”

They came to rest at the side of the table closest to their encampment. The Captain leaned out over the map. Lit braziers stood in each corner of the room and several candles sitting on the table shed flickering light upon the map, but the room was still dim.

The Captain studied the distance between the outpost and the camp. “How did the scouting party travel there and back in two days?”

“They sent a message by raven, sir,” the Lieutenant said, fingers rapping against the table, “in case they were intercepted on their way back.”

The Captain, brow furrowed, looked to the Lieutenant. “Is the danger really so high?”

“Five outposts have fallen. Patrols sent north haven’t been returning,” the Lieutenant said. “The troops have begun to notice. You know how fast rumors spread between soldiers; they say an army of demons are coming to cleanse us of sins we’ve committed. Sir.”

The Captain expelled air through his nose. “Nothing but rumors.”

“I agree. sir. But Zaunite technicians have been reporting anomalies consistent with instances of dark magic to the far north. Perhaps they’ve succeeded in creating-?”

The Captain shook his head. “High Command would’ve informed us of anything of that sort.”

His attention returned to the map. The time between losses of contact of each outpost seemed to correlate to the distances between each outpost. The length of time also indicated that whatever or whoever was decimating their forces traveled on foot. He examined the terrain, predicting routes that a platoon could feasibly pass through undetected. Then, he brought his conclusions to the final outpost and estimated how long it would take this unknown force to reach his camp.

Outwardly, he showed nothing, but inwardly, he flinched at the realization that they were past due.

Then, he noticed new additions to the map: three lines surrounding the camp, one to the southwest, one to the south, and one to the east.

He gestured toward them. “What are these? I don’t remember requesting reinforcements.”

The Captain looked to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant grimaced.

“Lieutenant?”

The Lieutenant exhaled. “I’ve been advised against giving you this information, but, seeing as you are my Captain-.”

“ _Lieutenant?_ ”

“High Command ordered it, sir,” the Lieutenant answered, looking like he’d just eaten undercooked shellfish. “They’re desperate to stop whoever or whatever is at fault.”

“High Command?” The Captain looked out over the map.

His throat dried.

“We’re bait.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door opened, a cold breeze blasting through and snuffing several candles. Feet pounded against the floor, and the sentries stationed indoors readied their weapons. However, it was only a messenger, but his face was alive with fear.

“We’re under attack!” the messenger shouted.

Shocked murmurs were exchanged between strategists, and soldiers moved to barricade the room. The Lieutenant stayed where he was, shifting uncomfortably in place. The Captain, however, had other ideas.

“Captain, where are you going?” the Lieutenant shouted after him, but the Captain had already shoved his way through the phalanx positioned in the hall. They cried after him, but he ignored them. All he was thinking of was the woman and the two boys.

He burst through the doors, drawing his weapon and scanning the courtyard, and when the doors closed behind him, he noticed how quiet it was. No clanging of swords, no explosion of artillery. Not even the voices of soldiers, but then he spotted a body in a growing pool of blood to the side of the courtyard. Then another, and another, and another, and they all trailed from-.

The door of his quarters hung open.

A lone, shirtless man stepped through the doorway. Blood dripped from the blade in his hands.

His heart stopped. His eyes went wide, and he could only squeak out one word.

“Catriona…”

 

**ooooo**

 

The Captain was not in his quarters. Just more Noxians, and they squealed when he cut them down. He couldn’t find any records or logs either, and without documents or a commander, the room was useless to him.

He returned to the doorway, brow scrunched from blindingly grey daylight. The courtyard wasn’t brimming with bodies in black plate like he’d expected, like he’d _hoped_ , but across the way emerged a man from a set of double doors. A man with an insignia etched into the pauldron riding on his shoulder: The Captain.

The Unforgiven Man took two steps forward, and the dredges of infantry he’d anticipated petered from the alleyways and the gaps in the walls and everywhere else vermin tended to crawl from. Fools. If they’d been a minute earlier, he would’ve met them as foes, but now that he’d acquired his target, they were simply a pest standing between him and retribution, and he treated them like so.

He swatted them aside, tore their throats with his blade, crushed their bones with his bare feet, and when the last of the enemy charged, he ran them through. Looked him in the eyes as he died with the blade through his stomach to the hilt.

The Captain. He’d just killed the Captain.

The Unforgiven Man cursed at himself for his mistake. Bloodlust had clouded the details, and fear struck him in the stomach with a dagger when he realized he had no leads. No leads meant no trail, no trail meant no prey, no prey meant no hunt, and no hunt…

No hunt meant no purpose. He may as well kill himself, save some Noxian assassin the effort.

No, wait. There must be documents, logs, something written that could provide a clue. Something that could lead him to _Riven_.

The Captain slid from his blade, grasping at the quicksilver as he fell like it were a rope and he was dangling precariously over a chasm. But the Unforgiven Man had no heart for Noxians, and he unsheathed the weapon abruptly, dreadful jets of blood spattering the yellowed grass.

Hasty strides brought the Unforgiven Man to the set of double doors left ajar. A wall of shields awaited him in the hall, but he’d fought worse. They were dead in seconds, and when more sentries rounded the corner, they collapsed as quickly as they appeared. Men of high rank were all that was left, cloaked in robes and cowering in corners. Some begged. Some fought. It made no difference to him.

When the walls were more crimson than they were slate, he hurried to the back rooms. An archive awaited for him, crisp scrolls rolled up in twine bursting from library shelves. He grabbed one at random and scanned the page. An inventory of grain bales from the harvest; nothing useful, so he tossed it aside and reached for another. A patrol’s report about a family of bears to the east; again, nothing useful.

His heart skipped a beat- from joy or from grisly excitement, he couldn’t tell- when he stumbled across a list of prisoners. Eyes feverishly scanned the page, but her name wasn’t there. He grabbed at another, missing his first attempt because his hands were trembling, and tore it open. Nothing.

List after list filtered between his fingers like sand in an hourglass. Event log after event log tumbled to the floor, a pile of parchment building like a snow drift around his feet.

Nothing. Panic crushing his chest, eyes watering in frustration.

He dropped to his knees and read what he’d read before, scurried across the floor like a rat and searched desperately, clawed for any hold, any clue, any piece of evidence, but there was nothing. There was fucking _nothing_ here, and he was about to rip the papers to shreds for not complying.

A rumble. Deep, like a thousand horses pounding the earth as they ran. Initially, he thought it was the blood roaring in his ears, the fury that so often seared his veins that without it, he felt empty, but it wasn’t that. It was real, it was loud, and it was approaching fast.

Papers soared as he sprinted for the exit. Candles died with a hiss as he passed them, and he leapt over corpses, threw open the double doors, and halted in his tracks.

Noxians.

Swarms of Noxians.

Broiling _oceans_ of Noxians, black, seething masses of armor shrieking for blood. He could see their wicked talons and their amber eyes glowing with hate, could smell the curdling blood oozing from their gnashing, toothy maws. Tremors seized the ground like icy terror seized his soul.

They were everywhere. Behind him, in front of him, to either side. In tidal waves rushing through gravel streets, bursting from every nook and cranny. He didn’t stand a chance.

With a gale behind his blows and The Wind at his back, maybe, but it’d abandoned him like so many others, and now he faced a devil’s horde with only his sword. At least his sword hadn’t ever left his side.

Failure tasted bitter on his tongue. Riven would walk free, wherever she was, and Yone would die in vain. Much like Ionia. Much like he, himself. Everyone would die in vain.

Hatred swelled in his tightened throat. Hatred at himself for being too weak, at Yone for leaving him alone in a vicious world that was so unlike their childish fantasies, at the ravenous army pressing down on him like guilt weighed on his shoulders, and at the inevitability of it all.

He met the throng with a shriek of his own, blade sweeping down and through.

He didn’t think or plan or strategize; it was years of training that moved his limbs and coordinated his strikes. Fermented fury coursed through his veins like poison, a concentrated concoction brewed in his heart from being forced to run while his loved ones and his country rotted and died at the doing of beasts, and as it razed his system, it gave him the power to sunder through plate like soft leaves and the speed to strike faster than a man could blink.

Silver flashed, and demons howled and died. The courtyard, the camp, hell, the entire _countryside_ was a hurricane of Noxian infantry, and he was the eye. The stench of blood overwhelmed his nostrils, but he hadn’t the time to sneer. As fast as he was killing them, they were appearing, and try as he might, he couldn’t keep up with them.

Without the wind, he was fatiguing fast. He figured it was seconds before they landed a lucky blow.

And then a horn’s booming bellow cut through the clash of swords and the snarling of cur, and just like that, they turned tail and ran.

His blood-soaked brows pulled together, and he made to chase them but his legs wobbled and wouldn’t comply. He looked down and grimaced; though he couldn’t discern whose blood was his and whose wasn’t, the gashes lancing across his legs were distinct enough that he could tell that he wouldn’t be walking anytime soon.

As adrenaline faded and realization surfaced, pain introduced itself. There were lacerations up his thighs and his torso and down his upper arms, and they all burned sharply. His head swam not only from the haze of battle, and getting a full breath’s worth of air into his lungs grew harder by the passing second. He was half dead, and the half that wasn’t was dying anyways, so why the hell-?

He tilted his head to the sky.

-Oh.

The end of his endless wandering soared through the air in the guise of a hundred thousand Noxian blackbarbs. Finality took the wind from him, ripped the blade from his hand and it clattered to the ground. He joined it a split second later, on his knees with limp arms and eyes that struggling to stay open.

Like a flock of ravens scouring the sky. Smooth, sable feathers whistling in the wind, razor beaks severing gunmetal clouds.

It was almost… beautiful.

The Unforgiven Man closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and let the rain of arrows wash the pain away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So whatcha think? Have I lost my "edge" after so much time away?
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you again next chapter!


	29. Announcement

Hey guys, author speaking here.

 

So if you've actually read this far (absolutely _baffling_ ) you might've noticed the stretch of time between chapters. Over the last many months, I've grown increasingly concerned as to where this story is going. Or rather, where I want to take it and where I've taken it so far. As of now, these places are two different places, and after much thought, I've decided that if I'm going to finish this, I can't continue the train of thought that has brought me this far.

 

A.K.A., I'm rewriting it. Sorry.

 

Hopefully, times between chapter updates will shorten significantly as my interest in this plotline rekindles. Because, trust me, I love writing this story. My love for this story is actually what's pushing me to do this; I can't stand to see this tale end/continue in the way it originally was. Salvaging it isn't really an option, as far as I'm concerned.

 

I hope y'all don't hate me for this, and if you do, I understand. I still hope y'all will stick around for the rewrite.

 

With sincere apologies,

   Sifter401

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! First chapters are usually boring slogs until the author can get back on their feet, so I appreciate you all giving me a chance. Please review and I'll see you next week! Thank you!


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